


A Soft Shroud of Safety in a World Gone Wrong

by thereweregiants



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, M/M, Overwatch Recall, Post-Recall, despite the summary not written in 2nd person, mild bloodplay, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 19:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16331726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereweregiants/pseuds/thereweregiants
Summary: You go through a lot over the course of twenty two years.You go through month by month.You go through life by life.You survive.





	A Soft Shroud of Safety in a World Gone Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> once again something that was supposed to be a short experiment and ended up as *resigned gesticulation* this mess  
> i just wanted to write present tense, and try out some new formatting  
> oh well
> 
> just a couple weeks ago i was all 'I'm never writing long periods of time again!'  
> *insert you-played-yourself.gif*
> 
> i think the structure makes sense, skipped years are indicated by asterisks, but i can't even tell anymore 'cause I've been picking at it too much
> 
> title from [Wooly Wolly Gong](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JT3Fz4Fc5M4) by tUnE-yArDs because some day my titles will be longer than the fic itself  
> soundtrack was the National's "You Were a Kindness". yes just one song for like five days straight, the world is thankful i live alone

december | january

McCree is handcuffed to the table. He’s not completely sure of where he is - he sees the logo splashed everywhere and the word Overwatch is repeated over and over, but he doesn’t know if that’s the place or the organization or what. He’s fairly sure they’re governmental, or at least official of some kind. He’s screwed either way, but it’ll be worse if they aren’t even pretending to be the good guys. They’d stuck him on a hypertrain and then a plane, and he’s unclear what country he’s actually in, or even what continent. If they’re putting in that kind of effort, hopefully that means he won’t be killed right away.

They made him go to a doctor first, a thin silent man with electronics fastened to his shaved head who gave zero warning before sticking him with large bore needles. Enough samples of just about everything were taken that McCree was pretty sure they could build a clone of him with little effort. Bandages were slapped on the various cuts and holes after they made him take a shower with harsh soap, and he was given plain grey sweats to put on afterwards. It wasn’t a prison jumpsuit, so he’s calling it a win.

McCree doesn’t know what happened to everything he had on him when he was captured. He doesn’t care about most of it, but he is worried about Peacekeeper, the gun he’s had since his wrists were strong enough to hold it without shaking. Also his belt buckle - he shed blood for that, and wants it back. They lived almost completely off the grid in Deadlock so the few things he had were precious. He doesn’t have much else to think about in the empty room, so his anxiety is ramping up. No doubt this is by design of the Overwatch people.

Speaking of which, three figures come into view. They’re on the other side of the window, which is currently clear but has the look of being able to be one-way if needed. He’s spent enough time in rooms like this to recognize that. It’s two men and a woman, and they appear to be arguing. Well, the man and the woman in blue are arguing, the man in black seems to be ignoring them. He’s vaguely familiar, McCree is fairly sure he was there when he was picked up after the shootout. He’s looking at McCree, in a way that makes him feel like the layers of his skin are being pulled back one by one. McCree stares back with fearless eyes. _Who are you? Give me my gun back. Let me go,_ he tries to say with them. He doubts it works, but the man in black speaks a few words to the others, then opens the door.

He’s tall, with a scattering of facial scars surrounding clear brown eyes with thick lashes under heavy brows. A goatee, a hint of dark hair under a knit hat. Muscular, in a way that says it’s for use and not show. McCree can tell the man is sizing him up the same way, and wonders what he sees. He’s tall and lanky, finally putting on a little bit of muscle now that he’s getting paid as an enforcer and can afford food. Probably could use a haircut, but he’s found he kind of likes the longer hair. The man puts a tablet in front of him, touches a button to project several screens into the air in front of him. On one McCree can see several of his mugshots, on another some of the documents the doctor had been typing up.

The man’s voice is smooth and deep. “Jesse McCree, born in Las Cruces, New Mexico. 5’11, 158 pounds, 20/10 vision, no major identified problems other than some malnutrition and your wisdom teeth coming in. Seventeen years old...eighteen next week. Happy early birthday.”

McCree had honestly forgotten. He wasn’t sure of the date at all, in fact. If his birthday was next week, then it must be close to New Year’s. Damn, that means he missed Christmas. Not that he’s had presents in years, but still.

The man continues. “Picked up...oh, a dozen times over the years for various petty things. You ramped it up in recent years, though, after you joined the Deadlock gang and moved up in the ranks. Now you have a bit of a bounty on you, thanks to serving as an enforcer for protection money and occasional gunrunner.” The man clears the screens from the air, looks at McCree with a penetrating eye. “I have your old school records here, back when you went to school. You’re intelligent, had a future. How’d you end up with that lot?”

McCree shrugs. “Family died in an omnic attack. Had to feed myself somehow, and they were the only ones who would take in a teenager.”

A snort. “Barely a teenager. You must have been what - twelve, thirteen?” He looks at McCree, tilting his head. “Where did you learn to shoot?”

“My mother taught me.” The man waits for him to elaborate, but McCree stays silent.

The man squares the edge of the tablet with the edge of the table with long, capable fingers. “I had a strike team of highly trained operatives on that sting operation, half of which I had personally recruited, all of whom I’d trained. And you, this half-educated gang member with apparently no sense of self-preservation, shot circles around them. Literally. You shot Davis in the ass.”

McCree couldn’t keep from smirking at that. The guy was bent over, and he just couldn’t help himself.

“I am Commander Gabriel Reyes. I’m the head of Blackwatch, a division of Overwatch.” At McCree’s blank look, he elaborated. “The UN put together an elite group after the Omnic Crisis got bad. We’re soldiers, peacekeepers, an international taskforce to deal with omnics and the various terrorist groups that have sprung up around the world. You’ve really never heard of us?”

McCree ignores the question. “What does this all have to do with me?”

Commander Reyes gives a smile with too many teeth. “Blackwatch is the black ops division of Overwatch. We take care of things they’re too squeamish to, using whatever methods necessary to take down the enemy. I’m always on the lookout for people with...talents that might be useful to us. People like you.”

McCree narrows his eyes. “So what are my options, here?”

“Well, you can rot in a maximum security prison. Given that you’re legal in a few days, you’ll be treated like one of the big boys. You won’t be seeing daylight again for quite a few years.”

“And the other option is…”

“Join us in Blackwatch. Get an education, get trained up, see the world and kill interesting people.”

“Sounds better than prison.” Reyes glances up at a security camera and makes a gesture, the handcuffs unlocking with a soft beep. When he sticks out a hand, McCree eyes it for a moment before shaking it. Off at the edge of the table the tablet flashes as Reyes stands and he picks it up, glancing at the screen.

“Didn’t notice the time passing, midnight already. Happy New Year, Jesse McCree. Welcome to Blackwatch.”

 

april

He is flat on his back and can’t feel his legs. His chest is heaving, and his mouth has the bitter copper taste of blood. He may actually die here. McCree squints as the sun is blocked out by the merciless silhouette of Staff Sergeant Blake.

“Get up, McCree. That was only eight miles. We want you doing fifteen by the end of the month.” She reaches a hand down, and McCree takes it, letting her haul him to his feet. Despite being most of a foot shorter than him, Blake can kick his ass any day and they both know it. She can kick most anyone’s ass, for that matter, which is why she’s in charge of training up new recruits. The blonde hair and round cheeks trick everyone into thinking she’s a pushover, and then someone ends up actually pushed over with her holding their neck and explaining what they did wrong as they pass out. McCree is half in love with her.

“Sorry, Staff, won’t do it again.”

“Yes, you will. Jog back so your legs don’t stiffen up, get some food in you then go see Cook.”

McCree gives a sloppy salute that he knows will annoy her, and heads back to the station. His first three months in Blackwatch have sped by in a whirlwind of training and classes. He’d always thought he was relatively in shape, but apparently not so for Blackwatch. They’ve been shoving horrific amounts of healthy food down his throat and as a result he’s put some pounds on, all muscle. When he’s not eating he’s training - cardio, every form of martial arts out there, and endless weapons work. After some thorough testing they realized there wasn’t much they could teach him about handguns, so they sent him to Captain Amari for longarms training.

She was one of the people he saw on his first day, and she’s the second-in-command for Overwatch. She’s beautiful and smart and absolutely terrifying, and it took awhile for McCree to get over his nerves enough to do well. While working with rifles she also teaches him about military history and weapons strategy. McCree is going through classes, too - everything he missed while he was in Deadlock and not school, plus all the shit that he needs to know for Blackwatch. Lieutenant Cook is teaching him everything from large scale troop strategy to how to wear cufflinks, and the only thing keeping him sane is knowing that some of the other recruits have to go through language classes too. At least his English and Spanish abilities are enough to keep him out of those. Even when he wasn’t in school McCree was always a reader, and it kept his skills sharp.

Once at the mess hall McCree grabs a tray without looking too closely at what’s on it, and makes his way over to where Olvera is waving. The vast majority of current recruits are Overwatch, right now he and a quiet older man named Wilson are the only Blackwatch fresh meat.

McCree sits next to her, nodding hello to the others at the table as he deftly switches her applesauce for his fruit cup. “Hey now!” she says with a laugh, and McCree shoves a spoonful in his mouth before she can take it back, grinning around the handle.

He didn’t know how it happened, but he’s made friends. After being surrounded by hard-eyed and harder-hearted men and women who only cared about money and violence for so long, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to. He was even less sure of fitting in here, with these people who had been to the best schools in the world. They were all recruited for specific reasons, though, and McCree’s marksmanship and instinctive grasp of field strategy has earned him respect.

For the first time in his life McCree is valued for who he is, and he barely knows how to handle it.

 

april

*

 

april

*

 

may | may

The air is forced out of McCree’s lungs as his back hits the brick wall outside of the bar. Richardson is plastered to his front, those full lips of his that McCree has been thinking about for months finally moving across his jawline. McCree pulls his head up enough so he can kiss the moles on the side of his face, before catching his mouth in a kiss that tastes like cheap beer and the kind of lust you only have at twenty years old.

Richardson slides a hand under McCree’s shirt, around his side. “Let’s get a cab back to HQ,” he sighs into McCree’s mouth. “My roommate's in Germany for the night.”

McCree answers with his lips and hands, and half an hour later in a dim Overwatch bunk he has sex for the first time fully by choice. It’s awkward, not amazing, but they laugh and moan and it’s good enough. They get better at it over the next couple months, until Richardson is sent on a mission to Korea, loses a leg, and doesn’t return.

After Richardson is Cortez, then Goodeson, then Colburn, then one disastrous night with Olvera that was two years of sexual tension in the making and leaves them as better friends than lovers. It’s not that McCree sleeps around with just anyone - he thinks of it as another type of training that he needs to get good at. He’s discreet, but thorough. He learns how to give blowjobs with Frederick, how to get fucked with Lennert, how to go down on a woman ‘til she’s shaking with Rivera. Once he feels competent he stops.

One May night at the same bar, a year after Richardson, Huffman asks him about it. He shrugs, says that once you get good enough at something, it gets boring. Huffman looks at him with skeptical eyes, states that they’ve been with their wife for five years and it’s still not boring. McCree shrugs again, says that maybe they just found the right person for them, then. Huffman rolls their eyes and shoves a shot at McCree, patting him on the arm.

 

june

After coming back from a mission in Mozambique, McCree gets an appointment added to his calendar - a meeting with Commander Reyes. McCree is nervous about it, though he doesn’t really have a reason to be. He excelled in his classes and weapons work, and since finishing training and officially joining Blackwatch a year ago, he’s done well on his missions. He sees Commander Reyes around relatively frequently, has talked to him perhaps a half-dozen times since joining up. He cautiously asks around to see if anyone else has a similar meeting added, but no one seems to know what he’s talking about.

At 1500 the next day he knocks on the frame of the open door of Reyes’s office. Reyes looks up from the computer he’s working at, tells McCree to come in, shut the door. They shake hands. McCree sits, anxious, though he keeps his face smooth. Reyes is looking at him with the same measuring gaze he used at their first meeting. He wonders what he sees this time. He’s twenty one now, two inches taller and nearly thirty pounds of muscle heavier, his voice dropped more than half an octave. His hair is still too long, and the way Mercado was able to yank it back in practice the other day makes him think he should cut it back some. Reyes looks...exactly the same. Better, even, now that McCree has worked through his sexuality a bit.

“McCree. It’s been a few years since you were...recruited into our ranks.” McCree can’t help a sardonic smile from tugging at his lips - given the choices were Blackwatch or prison, it wasn’t exactly a recruitment. The rueful amusement in Reyes’s eyes says he recognizes the irony.

“Despite an unconventional beginning, you’ve done quite well. Exemplary, in fact, including the year you’ve spent in the general pool.” Reyes leans back, serious look on his face. “I’d like for you to join my strike team.”

McCree isn’t capable of speech at the moment. Blackwatch has their general pool - agents that are picked and combined to go out on missions. Then, there are the strike teams. Three specialized teams that don’t change members, only a few agents in each. Reyes’s team, unsurprisingly, is made up of the best of Blackwatch. And he wants McCree in it.

“I’d - I’d be honored, sir.” McCree’s normally silver tongue is cemented to the roof of his mouth.

“Good. I’ve given you the rest of today and tomorrow off. You’ll be moving quarters, over to our hallway.” He pushes a data stick over to McCree. “There’s all your information, including changes in benefits, insurance and such. Read it over, sign it and send it to me by 1700 tomorrow so I can forward it to HR. You have an appointment at 0900 with Dr Andersson.” Reyes grins at McCree’s sigh of annoyance, a quick glimpse of teeth that makes the breath catch in McCree’s throat. “I know he’s a creepy bastard but we need current stats for you.”

He stands, McCree following a slow few seconds later, still processing everything. “Welcome to Strike Team Alpha. Meet us in Gym B at 0700 on Wednesday for training, we’ll see how you mesh physically with the rest of team.”

 

november

“No, see each person takes an end of the wishbone and pulls, and whoever gets the bigger piece gets a wish granted. Hence the name.”

Ng is looking at McCree with skepticism. She turns to Reyes. “He’s pulling my leg, right? This isn’t something you people actually do.”

Reyes shrugs, takes another bite of sweet potatoes. “If you don’t like our weird American traditions, then go find your own meal.”

Uwimana is poking at the slice of cranberry sauce on her plate, the marks from the can still visible. “And this...food is how you show you love each other?” The confusion on her face is clear as the sauce jiggles.

McCree sighs. “Listen, Thanksgiving has a lot of historical issues behind it, but the reasonin’ is sound. You give thanks for the year and for each other, pretendin’ you like your family or whoever you're with. And then you eat until you’re sick and watch football.” He turns to Reyes. “Back me up here, boss.”

“I’m thankful that we’re all alive and uninjured.” At Korb’s _Oi!_ and waving of his fractured finger, he rolls his eyes. “Relatively. Now finish up your meal, Fio’s looping around to pick us up in four hours, and we still have to get to the airspace in Cape Cod.” He reaches over across Ng, and he and McCree pull the wishbone apart. Reyes wins but refuses to say what his wish is.

 

november

*

 

november

*

 

november

They’re bivouacked in a cave at a forest border somewhere in Lapland. The storm outside is howling, and they lost contact with Uwimana and Ng hours ago. Korb is with the ship over at base camp, but who the hell knows where that is relative to their current position. Reyes is at the entrance to the cave, trying to jury-rig a repeater for their radio out of scavenged parts from a camp stove. Making a sound of frustration he goes to toss the whole thing aside in disgust, catching himself at the last second to set it down gently in case they can make it work later. He moves deeper into the cave, joining McCree who is shivering around a low-burning campfire.

“You need to move back, you’ll give yourself carbon monoxide poisoning,” Reyes says, as he settles down next to McCree.

“At least if I die, I’ll die warm,” McCree stutters out, teeth chattering enough to catch his tongue and draw blood. Reyes takes a closer look at McCree and frowns. His skin is waxy under his usual tan, and his lips are nearly purple. Reyes presses a few fingers to McCree’s neck, counts beats against his free hand tapping out seconds. His skin is too cold and his pulse is too fast, fluttering against Reyes’s warmer skin.

“Okay, let’s get you warmed up.” He spreads one of their emergency blankets on the ground, getting something between them and cold stone. Reyes strips off his thick jacket, layering that on the blanket. He pulls their second blanket off of McCree, then strips off his jacket as well. Manhandling a hypothermia-confused McCree, he makes him lay down before shaking the coat and blanket out over them both. Reyes gathers McCree in his arms, his SEP-efficient system having kept him at close to normal temperature.

McCree has lost some time - he remembers fighting through the snow and finding the cave. He remembers building the fire and staring into it as Reyes did something with their radio. Now he’s wrapped up in some coat-blanket burrito thing, and is tucked under Reyes’s chin like a child. It would be embarrassing, but it’s the first time McCree can recall being warm in what feels like days.

He’s almost certain Reyes is asleep, you don’t work with a man for three and a half years without learning his breathing patterns. They’re - well, there’s not other word for it, they’re cuddled up together. McCree is breathing in the smell of Reyes - sweat, gunpowder, leather, something oddly citrusy - pressed up so close to the man’s neck that he’s practically tasting instead of smelling.

McCree is glad he still has his gear on from the waist down - his enjoyment of the situation isn’t detectable through four layers of winterized pants. That’s been a growing problem for him. As he’s gotten to know Reyes, he’s become less of a monument, more of a man. It’s hard to be in awe of someone when their team lives in each other’s pockets most of the year. As he gets to know Reyes, he likes him. And then he _likes_ him. That’s not something that would bode well for McCree’s career, so he keeps his mouth shut and tries to ignore it. Tonight, though, Reyes is asleep, so McCree tightens his arm around his waist and passes out again with his face resting against a warm throat.

 

january

McCree is gorgeously, powerfully drunk. If his drunkenness was a person, it would be a supermodel. No wait, his drunkenness would be Hannibal, robust enough to take elephants over the Alps and conquer half the known world. Something like that. McCree lost the metaphor between shots.

It’s a combination celebration - the team took down a Talon genetics lab that was trying to replicate SEP and they captured all the scientists. It’s also McCree’s 25th birthday. The team badgered Reyes into letting them all go out for a night: Ng ferreted out a club as soon as they stepped foot in the city, and guilt-tripped Reyes into opening a tab for them all. Ng made them all take shots then dragged McCree out onto the dance floor with her. It’s been a long, long time since McCree has let himself go, given himself over to pure id.

Between dances and drinks, McCree has lost track of everyone. Even drunk he needs to know how his team is, so he makes his way to the edge of the dance floor to check on things. Ng is on the second level, shaking her ass like it’s going out of style. Korb and Uwimana are deep in conversation at a darkened corner of the bar - Ng and McCree have had a bet going for years as to when they’re going to stop being stupid and get together. Reyes is also at the bar, drink in hand and chatting with a man next to him.

That’s fine, that’s totally fine. Reyes can talk to whoever he wants to. McCree feels an arm at his waist, and is pulled back against someone. He turns his head to see it’s a dark haired man with eyes that glitter in the flashing lights and beautiful lips. McCree gives his best smile and melts back into him. None of them had any good clothing on them, so the whole team is in various stages of stripped down uniforms. McCree just has on his tac pants with no belt, making them sit low on his hips, and his skintight uniform undershirt. As they dance it rides up a bit, baring a strip of toned muscle and skin.

McCree tries not to look anywhere in particular, but his eyes keep being drawn back to Reyes. He’s...smiling. Reyes isn’t supposed to smile - McCree had to work for years to get him to smile. Who is this random asshole who’s making him smile? As if thinking of him draws his attention, Reyes looks away from his conversation partner. He does the same thing McCree did a few minutes ago: check on the team one by one. McCree, Korb and Uwimana, Ng. Then back to McCree. McCree’s eyes are half-lidded, he doubts that anyone can tell what he’s looking at, but he’s fairly sure Reyes is looking at him.

Turning his head, McCree drags his mouth up to his dance partner’s ear. Impulsively, he lies: “Hey, my ex is over there. Help me make him jealous?” In response his partner gives him a filthy kiss, then leans down to suck a hickey into McCree’s throat. He has one hand going across McCree’s chest, the other is stroking across the bared skin at his waist. McCree automatically has a hand threading through the guy’s hair, and he uses the other to reach behind and pull the guy closer. The other man starts up a smooth rhythm, moving their hips together sensuously. As much as McCree just wanted to fuck with Reyes, he’s starting to get turned on.

Speaking of which, he blinks slowly and glances over at the bar. Reyes is still talking the the guy next to him, but he’s definitely angled his chair towards the dance floor some. McCree uses his best moves, the dirty hip swivels and shoulder rolls he would watch the strippers at the Deadlock-owned clubs perform when he was barely old enough to know what they were doing. It’s amusing but exhausting to keep his focus when inebriated like this, and when he sees Reyes start to make moves like he’s getting up, McCree gives his partner a last thank-you kiss and makes his way off of the floor.

He throws himself into the chair next to Reyes, and raises a hand to the bartender. “Bourbon please, darlin’.” Reyes reaches up and pushes McCree’s arm down.

“And a water, please. Then he’s cut off.” McCree frowns, and Reyes glowers right back. “You’ve had more than enough.”

“Don’t you ever let your hair down, boss? Relax a little?” McCree can’t control his hands, and one of them reaches up to run through Reyes’s curls, making a rare appearance out from under the hat. Reyes bats McCree’s hands away, watching in amusement as his best marksman tries to keep his balance on the tall stool.

“Not to put a damper on your birthday, but we’re wheels up at 0800, and it’s already,” he checks his watch, “3 am. And I refuse to be on a six hour flight with your sweaty selves, you all need showers.”  Reyes sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles a distinctive three notes, cutting through the music. He watches to make sure the other three team members are coming before shoving the glass of water at McCree. “Drink.”

McCree ends up having to lean on Reyes most of the way back, as he’s the only one big enough to handle McCree’s drunken bulk. Reyes sets McCree against the wall as he tries to open the frustrating hotel room lock. He gets the door open, and shoves McCree on the bed. “Think you can shower without drowning yourself?”

“I’ll be fine,” McCree mutters, flopped on the bed. He pushes himself up as Reyes walks to the door. “No birthday kiss? You’re the only one on the team I didn’t get one from.” This is true. McCree doesn’t know it, but he looks positively debauched - tight shirt rucked up, messy hair, lips swollen and red with a livid purple mark showing under the edge of his collar.

Reyes looks McCree over for a long moment, then shakes his head, as much to himself as anything. “Not when you’re this drunk. Shower and try and grab a few hours, be downstairs at 7:30.”

As the door shuts McCree lets himself fall back on the bed. Well, it wasn’t a no, exactly. Somewhere in the dregs of his booze-soaked brain, a plan is coming together.

 

february

They’re up on a high-rise in Marrakech, watching a meeting go down between a minor omnic crime boss and someone they suspect is Talon. Talon-omnic collaborations are something they all want to avoid. Uwimana is their sniper, and she’s just waiting for her moment. Korb and Ng are on top of different high rises, with Reyes and McCree as protection for Uwimana in case they decide to chase her down after she takes the shot.

McCree is bored, sweating in the unseasonably warm weather. He blames the heat for his next move: turning to Reyes and saying, “I’m sober now.”

“I would hope so, given we’re all holding loaded weapons.”

“So how ‘bout that birthday kiss?”

Reyes turns to him with an incredulous look on his face, but none of it matters because Uwimana fires and all hell breaks loose.

 

march

The team is relaxing in the lounge they claimed as their own, a movie on the screen. Reyes is next to McCree on the couch, with Ng stretched out so her head is in McCree’s lap. She’s dead asleep, drooling slightly on McCree’s leg.

Korb and Uwimana are practically in each other’s laps on the other couch, paying an inordinate amount of attention to the screen so they don’t have to deal with each other.

During a lull in the action onscreen McCree tilts his head over to Reyes. “So. Birthday kiss?”

Reyes looks at him, the screen reflecting off of his eyes. “You’re not going to stop this, are you?”

“Nope,” says McCree, cheerfully popping the ‘p’ on the word.

 

may

Everyone is dressed to the nines tonight at a party in New York. Korb is monitoring outside from the van, Uwimana is stationed by the doorway, Reyes and McCree are circulating through the crowd, and Ng is currently fucking the cultural attaché from Numbani so she can get a DNA sample and the data stick he’s smuggling.

They’re all stuck listening to Ng and her target’s pants and moans, waiting to see if she needs backup. McCree and Reyes have migrated towards the edge of the room, near the hallway that leads to the hotel rooms. McCree catches Reyes’s eye, moves his head in a way that takes his com off of broadcast. Reyes raises an eyebrow in confusion but does the same.

“Hey, boss.” McCree leans against the bar next to Reyes. “Birthday kiss?”

Reyes’s face is thundercloud-dark, and McCree wonders if he’s pushed the gag too far. He gets he answer when Reyes grabs the front of his starched shirt and drags him off into the hallway. He marches him along until he finds an alcove with a darkened conference room door, and shoves McCree against the wall. “What has been your problem with this, McCree? Is it a joke? Are you mocki -”

“You said not when I’m drunk, and I’m not now. I just want what’s owed to me.” McCree can feel his face flushing despite himself. He didn’t care until he did, and now he’s in too deep to back down

“You -” Reyes stops, pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, then pins McCree in place with a hot gaze. “Fine.”

McCree never thought he’d get this far, so he has no idea what to do with the firm lips that are pressed to his. For better or worse Reyes knows exactly what he’s doing, and easily parts McCree’s dumbfounded mouth with a clever tongue, swiping it inside in a precise motion. Reyes kisses like he fights - like he wants to decimate his opponent in the fewest moves possible. McCree finally gets with the program and kisses back, arms automatically going around Reyes’s waist. Reyes is not about that, apparently, and McCree’s arms are abruptly slammed against the wall, wrists held down near his shoulders by Reyes’s strong hands. That’s a kink that McCree didn’t realize he had, so he can’t stop the noise of desperate pleasure from coming out of his mouth.

They both pause in surprise, then Reyes leans back in, slower and more deliberate. McCree feels like he’s being taken apart, even though the only thing happening is lips touching. Reyes seems to map out in seconds exactly what gets him going, then strokes over those spots with lips and tongue until McCree can’t remember how he got into this position in the first place.

“Sample and data stick retrieved, boss,” comes Ng’s voice in their ears. McCree startles, hitting his head against the wall but Reyes just tilts his head to bring himself back online.

“Make sure you activate the cooling pack, we don’t want the genetic material going bad,” he says calmly, voice as smooth as ever, like he’s not pinning McCree against a wall and breathing into his mouth. “Everyone make their way out by different exits. Uwimana out the front, Ng out the west side, McCree and I will go the back way. Get in the van and let’s get out of here.”

At the clicks of assent, Reyes lets McCree’s arms down. He straightens McCree’s shirt and tightens his tie. Stepping back, he smooths a hand down over his own jacket and shoots his cuffs before turning to make his way to the back entrance.

Turning his head at seeing McCree not follow: “You coming?”

“Not yet,” mutters McCree, and honestly couldn’t care if Reyes hears or not.

 

july

Something has changed between McCree and Reyes. They don’t talk about the kiss, don’t touch each other more or less than before. There’s some additional level to their relationship that’s been achieved, though, and it’s not romantic.

One day when they’re all on base Reyes smacks McCree in the head with a file folder on his way through the kitchen. “Ingrate. With me.” McCree rolls his eyes but gets up, refilling his coffee cup and grabbing another for Reyes before following.

They sit at a table in a conference room, and Reyes shoves a pile of files over to McCree. “Don’t spread it around, but Ng is going to be leaving us soon. She was offered a senior position with the PLARF, and you know how she misses home.” McCree nods. Ng is an amazing woman: intelligent, ruthless, and devoted to Blackwatch, but she often talks with a wistful look of her large family that she rarely gets to see. Blackwatch doesn’t have many family people.

“This is my shortlist of people for her replacement on our team. I’d like you to read over the files, then take a look at them during training. See if you think anyone would mesh well with the team.”

This is...big. McCree cocks his head, fixes Reyes with a stare. “Why me?” he asks bluntly.

Reyes squares the edges of the files, taking a sip of coffee before meeting McCree’s eyes. “If I set foot anywhere near the general training facilities, everyone chokes. I need another pair of eyes, and...I trust you.”

“Really.”

The trademark grin that’s just a flash of teeth, there and gone in a blink. “You’re tenacious. I respect that.”

With that extremely oblique reference to what McCree had pulled, Reyes is gone, leaving McCree confused but pleased with a pile of folders in front of him.

 

august

A folder is thumped in front of Reyes, who is trying not to fall asleep during a conference call with some Overwatch lackeys. He mutes the call, and raises an eyebrow at McCree.

“This is your guy.”

Reyes takes one look at the name, raises the other eyebrow. “I didn’t put that file in there. And you know why.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s who you want.”

“The man’s a walking pile of mental issues, McCree. I’m shocked he’s been able to handle Blackwatch at all, and you really think he’d work on a strike team? _Our_ strike team?”

“Yeah, because I was the most mentally sound person when you picked me up. Or Korb, dealin’ with his whole family dyin’. Or Uwimana, with her brother being taken -”

“Okay, fine, we’re all messes. But this guy? He grew up yakuza, and apparently couldn’t even get that part right.”

“I know, but he’s a good guy, I swear. Started talkin’ to him a year back or so - you know I still see Doc Brennan every once in awhile?” Reyes nods. The staff psychiatrist has a beast of a job, and it’s hard to get the men and women of Over- and Blackwatch to admit they need help even though virtually all of them do. McCree has never been ashamed of seeing her, he wouldn’t be where he was today without some of her techniques.

“We were in the waitin’ room together, started talking about stress relief. Told me about meditation, how it helps him. Not my bag, but it got us talkin’. He’s good people, grown a lot since he got here. And his weaponry is unbelievable - you want silence, Genji’s your man.”

“Always could use something quieter than your cannon,” Reyes muses as McCree snorts. Peacekeeper is a classic. Reyes flips through the file. “Shimada...we’ll have to be careful if we have any missions around Japan, don’t want his family or rival clans coming after him.”

McCree shrugs. “Just like how I don’t go near New Mexico and Korb stays the hell out of Australia. We’ve all got places we can’t go.” He heard how Reyes phrased the previous sentence, though, and knows he’s won.

“I want to get eyes on him myself, then do a few practices with the team.”

McCree grins. “You’ll see I’m right.”

“Uh huh.”

 

september

Ng retires, and Genji Shimada joins Strike Team Alpha.

 

december

It’s the non-denominational Winter Party, and all of the strike team is there with the rest of Blackwatch and Overwatch. No one is comfortable. McCree and Korb have never particularly liked Christmas, Uwimana has never celebrated a winter holiday, Genji hates anything that reminds him of his family, and Reyes disappeared to take a call and came back grumpier than usual.

McCree hands him a glass of eggnog, which Reyes makes a face at and sets it aside. “The idea of thick milk creeps me out. Reminds me of the supplements they’d make us take in SEP.” He snags a glass of champagne off of a passing waiter’s tray.

Looking over the team, McCree gets an idea. He drains his cup and sets it aside, murmuring for Reyes to gather the team. He sneaks behind the bar, the omnic waiter distracted by something Morrison is asking him, and grabs two magnums of champagne. Reyes smirks, and stealthily grabs team members one by one on their way out. They gather in the lounge they commandeered years ago, and Korb puts some action movie about a skyscraper that he insists is really a Christmas movie on the screen.

They’re all far more relaxed, Genji and Uwimana playing an increasingly drunken high-stakes game of darts as Korb baits them against each other. McCree joins Reyes in leaning against the wall and watching the game.

“You okay? Seemed upset.” McCree nudges Reyes with an elbow.

Reyes sighed. “It’s nothing. My sister called, annoyed that I didn’t make it home for the holiday.”

McCree is quiet for a moment. “You should try and make it home for New Year’s. If you have family, you should try and see them.” He doesn’t say that he doesn’t have any family left, that most of them don’t, but they both hear it in his tone of voice.

They pass the champagne back and forth for a few minutes, drinking right from the bottle. Reyes tilts his head back to swallow, and McCree has to make an effort to keep his gaze on the game.

“I feel guilty, you know,” Reyes says abruptly. “Christina wants me to come back to LA, see her and the kids but.” He shrugs helplessly, indicating the building around them. “I’ve spent three times as much time here as in California, I see you lot far more than anyone I’m related to.”

“Feels like you’re already home?” McCree asks, and Reyes nods hesitantly.

The movie ends, the game breaks up, and they kill one of the bottles, leaving half of the other still full. They all wander out, making their way back to the kitchen then out to their quarters. McCree grabs the full pot of coffee that runs pretty much 24/7, pouring himself a mug while Reyes puts the leftover champagne away.

He steals McCree’s cup, making a face at the taste. “Don’t know how you can put that much sugar in, ruins the taste.” McCree shrugs. Ever since he got out of Deadlock he’s sugared his coffee hard, better than the bitter boiled dirt that they’d had. They mosey out to the hallway, and Reyes catches McCree’s arm before they split off.

“Thank you,” he says awkwardly. “For listening to me ramble. And for doing all of this.”

McCree smiles easily. “That’s what teammates are for.” Reyes’s mouth twitches up in response, and as he lets McCree’s arm go his eyes are caught by something above them. McCree looks up as well. Mistletoe, hanging from the ceiling.

He moves to step back, but is stopped by a hand wrapped around the back of his neck. Reyes’s mouth tastes like sweet champagne and sweeter coffee, the flavors quickly dissipating in favor of just _Reyes_. Mindful of what happened last time, McCree keeps his free hand by his side, his other still holding his coffee. This is a different kiss, though - something slow and gentle that neither of them are fighting to control. It comes to a natural stop, and Reyes pulls back just a bit, his forehead resting against McCree’s.

“Merry Christmas, Jesse,” he says quietly against McCree’s lips, walking off to his quarters without meeting McCree’s eyes.

McCree just stands in the hallway with a half a cup of coffee and half an erection, watching him leave.

 

august

Reyes and McCree are bent over the desk, making marks on the electronic map projected there. “There are sewers that have an outlet here,” McCree taps in the air. “If we have one person enter that way, they can get at the control grid for all their electronics over here, and take it all out with just one EMP.”

Reyes draws a line in the air on the route and is about to speak when there’s a knock at the open door. They both look up to see Strike Commander Morrison and Captain Amari.

“Gabe,” Morrison rumbles. “Let’s go over what you'll need for your operation.” Reyes shuts down the tablet and walks out.

He turns when he sees McCree isn’t following. “Come on, kid. Need you on this.” McCree follows behind, trailing Captain Amari.

Morrison doesn’t bother to keep his voice down, nor keep the skepticism out of it. “You really need him with us? This is top level, Gabe.”

Reyes lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “He knows more about the layout at this point than I do. I’ve been transferring some of my duties over to McCree, it gives me more time to work on what I need to.”

Captain Amari steps back to pace McCree. “Sounds like you’re being groomed for the Blackwatch version of my job,” she murmurs. The same thought has occurred to McCree, but he hasn’t said anything. There is no Blackwatch second in command position, just Reyes. He knows that many of the newer members will come to him though instead of bothering the commander. McCree knows most of them, having been tapped last year by now-Gunnery Sergeant Blake to train recruits in handguns.

“Captain Amari -”

“Ana.”

“...whatever you say, ma’am.” It’s going to take awhile to get comfortable with first names with her. “I think it’s just that I’ve been here longer than most.” It’s true - the only people in Blackwatch longer than McCree’s years in are Reyes and Korb. Uwimana retired just two weeks ago, and McCree has a bet with Reyes as to how long Korb is going to stick around before running after her. They don’t have a replacement yet for Uwimana, but so far they’re doing okay.

Amari - Ana - shakes her head. “It’s more than that. Gabriel trusts you, and that’s not something to be taken lightly.” McCree doesn’t know how to respond to that, and is saved by them reaching the situation room.

They talk through everything, McCree arguing heatedly with Morrison about supplies they need for the operation. He keeps an eye on Reyes, but he never moves to quiet McCree or pull him back, so McCree barrels ahead. Both sides come out slightly unhappy but feeling like they got a good deal, and on their way out Morrison claps a friendly hand on McCree’s shoulder.

The next day McCree has dinner with Korb, who does more pushing food around his plate than eating. “I think I’m leaving, after the next op,” he says finally.

“Followin’ her?”

He smiles ruefully. “That obvious, huh?”

“You have something good there, Korb. Why not go after it?”

Korb’s smile is sadder, now. “Pot and kettle, McCree.” McCree looks at him in confusion. “I know that you all had bets on me and Sava. But you know, we had bets on you, too.”

“With who?”

“Who do you think?” Korb gets up, gathers his things. His eyes flick over to the side of the room. McCree follows his gaze, meeting the eyes of Reyes, who gives him a half-smile as he continues talking with Ana.

“Feel free to message me when one of you gets your head out of your asses, I’ll let you know who won.”

Korbs gets up and leaves, and McCree is left with a pile of spinach in front of him that he no longer feels like eating. Reyes and Ana sit by him, because that’s just what he needs right now.

“You okay?” Reyes asks, concern on his face. McCree shakes his head, trying to get rid of whatever expression was on there.

“I’m fine. Korb is leavin’ after the next mission.”

“Damn. Looks like I owe you twenty.” At Ana’s questioning look Reyes explains the history, as McCree picks at his food.

“McCree.” He looks up, from the tone it’s not the first time Reyes called his name. Ana is gone, no doubt at Morrison’s calling. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine. Just weird that no one around will have been here longer than me, except you. Never thought I’d make it that long.” _Without being killed_ is unspoken, but they both know that it’s rare that Blackwatch agents make it to any sort of retirement. The only reason their team has done so well is because they’re just that good.

“Not what you expected, as a seventeen year old gang member?”

“Hey, now. I was nearly eighteen.” McCree smirks a bit before looking pensive. “Reyes, is it - okay, that Korb came to me first? That people in Blackwatch do that sometimes?”

Reyes gives one of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it grins. “I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your attention that I’ve pretty much turned you into the Blackwatch version of Ana. I asked if we could make it official, but Jack said that we weren’t big enough to justify it. Everyone knows it, so that’d be more of a formality.” He clears his throat. “You’re important to me, Jesse, me and Blackwatch, and this place wouldn’t be what it is without you. I hope you know that.”

Neither of them looks each other in the face, but both have slight smiles. McCree wonders idly how much money Korb and Uwimana bet, and for when.

 

november

With Korb out, they desperately need a new strike team member - Genji and McCree can’t do the work of four people, though they try. Reyes shows up with a file in hand to his office where McCree is already lounging on the couch, but he doesn’t hand it over right away.

McCree makes grabby hands. “Give it up.” Reyes doesn’t.

“Keep an open mind, okay? It’s pretty much set that she’ll be on the team.” He reluctantly hands the file over.

McCree glances at the name and tosses it down without reading any more. “Absolutely not, Gabe. You heard what she did!” Sometime in the past month or so McCree graduated to first-name basis, and it’s excellent for when he’s annoyed.

“I know, and that’s just why we need her. Her work is easily translatable to biotics, and Torbjörn says he can work with what she’s been making. Not to mention, we could really use a medic.” Korb was their corpsman and they all had basic field medic training, but it wasn’t the same as having an actual doctor with them.

“She’s an amoral lunatic, Gabe, and this is comin’ from someone who worked with amoral lunatics for the first half of his life! Do you really think she won’t turn on us the second someone offers her more money or a better lab? What kind of loyalty is she going to have to us?”

Reyes sits in his chair, body language obviously unhappy. “I know, I know. Those are all good arguments. She’s...she’s bringing some knowledge that we need, though, that we can’t get elsewhere.” He sighs at McCree’s wordless frustrated gesture. “I’d give you more information but I can’t. It’s above your paygrade.”

It’s rare that there’s something that Reyes has to pull rank for with McCree, but this is apparently one of those times. McCree doesn’t push, knows that it’s not personal and unfair for him to try and get it out of Reyes.

“Fine. Just don’t make me train her,” he says grumpily.

“Of course not. I’ll just send her to the handgun specialist for recruits,” Reyes says blandly, and laughs when McCree’s face goes through happiness then resignation when he realizes who that is.

 

may

“We need another person,” McCree says flatly, gingerly sitting down on the couch next to Gabe. He’s in a foot-to-hip cast as well as a wrist cast, thanks to a concussion grenade that sent him into a wall and broke his femur on a door frame. It was only Moira’s quick work stabilizing him and McCree’s shooting Peacekeeper with an already-sprained wrist that recoil turned into a fracture that he’s alive at all. Genji was pinned down on another floor, and Gabe was fighting off a Bastion unit that came out of nowhere.

“I know. I’m going through files now. Looks like Moira’s earning her keep, though.”

McCree grumbles, but it’s true. He continues to not like her, but he’s on the way to trusting her. McCree was coming to terms with that dissonance, still. “Do you have any on you?”

Gabe roots around in a drawer before handing him a stack. “This is the short list.”

McCree flips through them, a few familiar names, a few external candidates. He pauses, and a genuine smile spreads over his face. “Aw, Olvera!”

“You know her? She’s a strong candidate.”

“Oh yeah, we were recruits at the same time, got pretty close during our first couple of years here.”

Gabe’s voice is markedly bland as he asks, “How close?”

McCree chuckles. “Nothin’ like that. Well, once, but it didn’t work out. Left us better friends than anything else.”

“Would that be anything that would get in the way of you working together?”

“Nah, definitely not. I haven’t seen what she’s done since trainin’, but she was great back then. I’d keep her near the top.”

Gabe reaches a hand out and takes the stack back, shuffling the files back together.

A few days later McCree is having tea with Ana when Gabe walks by. He asks about the short list.

Gabe shrugs. “Still going through it. Looking hard at this Overwatch guy named Fitzgerald that I might poach. Was thinking of going with Olvera, but she was tapped for some PR group, being the face of Overwatch and all of that.”

McCree nods his head. “That’s the kind of thing she’d be good at. Send over Fitzgerald’s information, I’d like to get a look at him.”

Gabe nods, waving a distracted goodbye to him and Ana as he walks off. McCree turns back to Ana, and is surprised by the suspicious look that she’s shooting Gabe’s back.

“Anythin’ I should be worried about?” he asks her.

“No, no.” She shakes her head and looks thoughtfully at McCree. “You liked this Olvera?”

McCree bobs his head in assent. “We trained up together, haven’t talked to her in quite a few years but we were pretty close back in the day. Why?”

Ana sips her tea, taps her nails on the edge of saucer. “Nothing. I remember going through the PR nominations, I recall her file. She had some recommendations from interesting places.”

“She’s a great person, not surprised she had good recs.”

“Mmm.” Ana doesn’t seem inclined to say anything more, so McCree lets it go.

 

september

“You know I’m right.”

“You’re really, really not.”

“If we’d had the proper intel -”

“We did have the proper intel, it just changed.”

“It changed because Jack didn’t tell us that our informant was taken out, by goddamn Overwatch! Puttin’ everything he told us under suspicion, which is _why_ it changed. If Overwatch bothered to get down off of their high horse sometime and talk to us -”

“It’s not their fault, they had no clue that Edouard was part of our investigation.”

“No, but they knew that we had a long-term op in Monaco. It’s the smallest fuckin’ country on the planet, it’s not like they couldn’t think our operations would collide! That’s short-sighted and goddamn disrespectful.”

As they pass through the kitchen, one of the newer recruits mutters to the woman next to him, “Oh look, Mom and Dad are fighting again.”

McCree snaps his head around without breaking stride, and the recruit goes white. “Thank you for your input, Carraldo. I want you running Training Scenario 43 tonight with omnic restrictions, and you need to message me your results by midnight. If you haven’t improved your scores from earlier I’ll _know_ why.” McCree doesn’t bother listening to the stuttered _Yessir_ , just keeps pace with Gabe into the hallways.

“Lovely, Jesse. Now you’re taking it out on the recruits.”

“At least I’m bothering to get them trained up, which is more than I can say for whatever Overwatch is turnin’ out these days.”

Gabe veers direction, heading toward quarters instead of his office. If he thinks that will stop McCree now that he has a full head of steam, he has another think coming. “They’re doing their best.” He slaps his hand to the pad outside his quarters, yanking open the door. McCree doesn’t let it close, barges in right behind him.

“Really, now? Or is that just something else Jack tells you that you eat up without thinking?”

Gabe yanks his hat off and tosses it on his desk before turning. “Excuse me?” his voice has gone deadly quiet.

“You heard me. I know that y’all have been friends for forever, but we’re not talkin’ friendship, we’re talkin’ politics. Overwatch has to look good, we don’t. So they take the glory that they can, and don’t care how it messes us up.”

“That’s not true and you know it. Jack has always been supportive of us.”

“Funny way of showin’ it.”

“How about you be a little goddamn grateful to him sometime, how’s that for showing it? I had to fight tooth and nail to recruit Genji and Moira and yes, you. And who approved it all? Jack. If it wasn’t for him smoothtalking HR you wouldn’t be here at all.”

“That’s low, Gabe. And it’s hard for me to feel grateful for something ten years ago, when Fitz is in medical with shattered ribs and Genji is in a fucking coma!”

Gabe cocks his head. “Is that what this is all about? Them being hurt?”

“No.”

Gabe steps closer, puts a hand on McCree’s shoulder that he shakes off. “Stop it, Gabe. I have a point and you damn well know it. If Overwatch had done their due diligence on this op, we wouldn’t be down half our team.”

“That may be true -”

“It is. And have you heard one word from them in apology? One word about the grenade that I saw the logo on that took out that loadbearing wall? That wasn’t Talon, that was delayed friendly fire!”

“What do you even want from me right now, McCree?”

“I want you to give a shit, Gabe, I want you to get mad -”

Gabe moves into McCree’s space, backs him up against the desk. “Are you actually saying that I don’t care about our team? Are you serious right now?”

“No, I’m sayin’ you won’t rock the boat with your precious Jack for us.”

“Don’t you dare tell me how much I care about our team -” the sentence is gone, ended against McCree’s lips.

They’re both ramped up from the argument, and their kisses - if you can call them that - show it. It’s all lips and teeth and angry tongues, and McCree is gasping as much at the nips to his top lip as at the broad hands rucking his shirt up and scratching down his sides. His hands are on Gabe’s jaw and neck and he can feel his pulse thunder, feel it speed up as they press into each other. McCree is somehow sitting on the desk at this point, and figures at the back of his mind that he might as well wrap his legs around Gabe since he’s already there.

His jeans are restrictive, making his thighs too tight around Gabe’s hips. He doesn’t seem to care, though, and is scraping his teeth over a mark on McCree’s collarbone. The raw skin is a direct line to McCree’s dick, and he has to take a moment leaning back on his arms before trying to push Gabe’s head away. “Gabe - shouldn’t have visible marks -”

Gabe’s eyes when they meet his are hot with anger and want and need. “My team. Mine.” McCree mentally throws up his hands and lets him at it, using the time to unzip the ever-present hoodie and pull it off Gabe’s shoulders. He pushes Gabe up enough to strip off his undershirt, and takes a moment to admire the chest in front of him. Scars, so many of them, along with a line of hair trailing downwards into pants that McCree intends to investigate. He slides off the desk and onto his knees, mouthing over Gabe’s pants as his hands comb through the hair above him.

Fingers thread through McCree’s hair and pull back. McCree is forced to look up at Gabe, but his hands stay busy undoing his fly and pulling everything down. Gabe exhales a curse and tugs upwards, McCree following reluctantly with a longing look at Gabe’s cock. He touches as much of Gabe’s chest as he can as he tangles their tongues together, barely paying attention to how Gabe strips him down to nakedness.

It’s not fueled by rage anymore, this is something that’s been developing too long over too many years. It’s nowhere near tender, but their hands no longer have anger in them as they run over sweat-damp skin.

They’ve been walking Gabe backwards, and he moves back onto the bed. He stretches out, unselfconscious in his nakedness, and McCree just takes a moment to let his eyes drink in the feast before him. Gabe isn’t idle, reaching into a drawer, pulling out a bottle of lube and tossing it to McCree. McCree raises an eyebrow in question as he catches it, and is answered by Gabe spreading his legs. He stares up at McCree, jaw set like it’s a challenge, a dare, but McCree would never look this gift horse in its proverbial mouth.

McCree slicks his fingers up, preps Gabe with efficiency over sensuality. They can take their time later. He does lean down to finally take him in his mouth. He’s thick, stretching McCree’s jaw out in a way that makes it crack almost pleasantly. He takes a little too much time, a purposeful twitch from Gabe’s hips making his cock hit the back of his throat. McCree glares up, eyes watering, but Gabe only has a look of false patience on his face. McCree sits up, shifts Gabe’s legs to where he wants them.

“Condom?” It’s the first word either of them have spoken since Gabe’s apparent declaration of ownership.

“SEP.” It’s enough of an answer.

McCree swipes lube onto himself, holds Gabe’s thigh with one hand as he lines himself up with the other. They both make involuntary noises as he pushes in. McCree highly doubts this is Gabe’s first time bottoming, but damn if it doesn’t feel like it. Everything is too-tight slick plush heat, and it takes everything in him to wait for Gabe’s nod before starting to move. They’ve worked together for years too long for this to be anything but smooth, bodies moving together in a dance they’d trained for but never quite gotten to.

McCree is having to breathe carefully in order for it not to be over soon. Gabe is beautiful beneath him, broad chest heaving with the small pants and groans that it doesn’t look like he knows he’s making. It could be better, though, so McCree reaches over to grab a pillow, hoisting Gabe’s hips up enough to slide it underneath. The new angle lets him hit where he wants, and now Gabe’s legs are braced on the bed, his hips snapping up to meet McCree’s with every thrust. They’re both going to have bruises, sharp hipbones slamming into muscle.

He’s getting close, lets himself fall forward. Now he’s getting Gabe’s moans in his mouth and a new sensation on his stomach as Gabe fists his cock in the space between them. McCree reaches down, pulls one of Gabe’s legs up so he can get just those few centimeters deeper. It’s enough to push Gabe over the edge, and a groan is pulled from him as heat splashes between their bodies. McCree can’t help but follow quickly, the pressure around him just too much to bear. He pants his orgasm out into Gabe’s neck, a hand grasping painfully at his hair and raspy breaths in his ear.

They lay like that for awhile, McCree on top as Gabe rubs circles into his back with a lazy hand. Eventually McCree’s knee is going numb so he gets up. He goes into the bathroom, damps down a washcloth. He wipes off his chest and cock, comes out into the bedroom to get Gabe. He stops, just looking. Gabe is covered with evidence of what they just did - reddened marks and beardburn on chest and neck, come on his stomach and slowly dripping out from between his thighs and catching on the hair there. It’s tempting to leave him like this. McCree wants to mount him on the front of Blackwatch facilities like a figurehead on a ship, a declaration that this is his, all his. Instead he wipes Gabe off, tossing the now rather disgusting pillow onto the floor.

Gabe gets up enough to tug the covers down, they never got around to actually getting in bed. When McCree hesitates he rolls his eyes and throws the covers open wider. McCree gets in, tapping the light off as he does.

They fit together comfortably, two puzzle pieces that have bounced around the box for so long that the corners are worn off and they’ll slot into each other any which way. McCree lays there, thinking about the two inches between his and Gabe’s heads, wonders why it’s so hard to think about when he had his cock in the man fifteen minutes ago. He shifts forward, pressing lips then forehead against Gabe’s temple. A hand slides over, rests against McCree’s chest.

“‘M not sorry for what I said,” McCree murmurs into the hollow of Gabe’s cheekbone. “Am for how I said it, though. You know I know you love the team.”

“Sorry for how I brought up how you were brought in,” says Gabe quietly in return, voice still rough. “I don’t know if you’re...I just need some time to think about things.”

McCree rubs his head a bit against Gabe’s. “Don’t like fighting. Even if this is the aftermath.”

A huff of air, as Gabe chuckles nearly silently. He turns his head a bit, settles. “Get some sleep, Jesse.”

McCree is woken the next morning by a familiar cadence of knock on the door. Both men sigh, and McCree buries himself deeper in the blankets and the warmth Gabe leaves as he gets up to answer the door. He tugs on a shirt and sweats he grabs from atop a hamper as he goes.

“It’s eight am the day after a bad op, Ana, and I specifically scheduled myself off. What in god’s name could you want?” The question is punctuated by a yawn.

“I had two separate recruits come to me telling tales about how you and McCree were fighting last night. I hope the report of punches being thrown were exaggerated?”

“It was just a disagreement, and Jesse might have spoken a bit harshly at some dumb kid who was speaking out of turn.”

“...Really.”

“Really.”

Silence for a moment. McCree wants to look and see what’s happening, but doesn’t want to deal with the aftermath.

“May I ask why you’re ignoring your manners and not inviting me in?”

“You’re the one who knocked on my door at an unholy hour, Ana. I’m planning on going right back to bed as soon as you leave.”

“And that explains you blocking the doorway.” A quiet _ow_ from Gabe. “I feel like your reluctance has less to do with sleep and more with those marks on your neck.”

“Go away, Ana.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” She leans to the side to call into his quarters. “ _Both_ of you.”

McCree pokes his head out of the covers, just enough for a single eye mostly hidden by messy hair to meet Ana’s glare from around Gabe’s bulk. “We love you, Ana.”

She spits out a stream of rapid-fire Arabic, walking away as she gesticulates to thin air. McCree can guess what she’s complaining about. Gabe shuts the door and wanders back, knuckling sleep from his eyes. He strips back out of his clothing, falling into bed with a sigh. McCree wraps sleep-warm arms around him.

“Stop thinking about her,” McCree says into his hair. He can feel Gabe’s tenseness, but also feels it relax bit by bit until he’s sleep-sloppy and wrapped back around McCree. Their snores fill the air.

 

january

It’s been months, and they haven’t touched each other since the morning after they slept together. McCree would be more upset, but he knows Gabe, knows how he thinks. He can see the guilt wash over his face whenever he looks at McCree too long, can see him move just a bit too carefully when in close physical proximity. They’re both so busy with two members down that McCree is too exhausted to care much.

They’ve had to pull smaller missions for months as first Fitz then Genji come off the injured list and go into physical therapy. They’re finally all ready, so the team of five moves out for a mission in Ilios. The gorgeous ocean and sky are a contrast to the building full of broken and bleeding bodies, and the smell of cordite clashes with the sea air.

It’s when Gabe and McCree are running from a massive omnic over the rooftop, trying to get some distance so they can shoot it, that it happens. The omnic is too heavy for the building, and crashes through the floor. Floorboards splinter all around them, and McCree is caught at the edge of it. He reaches out, but Gabe hesitates just a second before reaching back. It’s long enough for McCree to vanish into the cloud of debris below them.

The rest of the mission goes as well as it can under the circumstances, but McCree isn’t awake for it. He opens his eyes in Medical, blinking dazedly at the large blue eyes of Angela Ziegler, who crinkles them up in a smile as she welcomes him back. She tells him that McCree had become trapped under the omnic’s arm, which dislocated his shoulder and cut off his air. Gabe had apparently single-handedly prised the omnic off of him, carried McCree to safety, and defended him in a small storeroom until Genji and Moira could come rescue him. McCree was currently doing all right, but they had kept him under for awhile so they could pump various things into his dust-inhalation damaged lungs.

“He’s been here for days, you know,” Angela murmurs, tilting her head towards the hallway outside. Gabe is there, pretending that he doesn’t have every iota of his attention fixed on the room and its occupant. “Commander Morrison came down and they had it out yesterday, but at the end Commander Morrison left and Commander Reyes stayed.” She finishes changing the bandage on McCree’s shoulder, smoothing the tape into place. “Just to let you know.”

She leaves, stopping outside the room to say a few words to Gabe, patting his arm as she leaves. Gabe visibly takes a minute to prepare before entering, walking over to the bed. He looks over McCree carefully, cataloguing every scratch and bruise, the overgrown stubble and unwashed hair, eyes lingering on the bandage peeking out from under the hospital gown.

“Sit down, you’re makin’ my neck hurt,” McCree rasps out, voice wrecked from the breathing tube that had been down his throat. Gabe pulls a chair over and sits, letting McCree get a good look at his face. He looks miserable, having obviously forgone things like shaving and sleep recently. “Stop feelin’ guilty.”

Gabe closes his eyes for a moment. “It was my fault,” he says quietly. “If I hadn’t been acting - if, if I hadn’t hesitated -”

“Then you would have been pulled down right with me. You’re not the one that put the omnic there, Reyes, you’re not the one that put a Null Sector hideout on Ilios.”

Gabe visibly winces at the use of his last name, something McCree hasn’t done regularly in over a year. “I know, but. I know you don’t want to be involved or anything -”

“Now where would you get that idea? I thought you didn’t want to touch _me_.”

Gabe meets McCree’s eyes, and the depth of what’s in there is almost terrifying. “Jesse, I want to touch you _all the time_. But I was told, by multiple people, that you didn’t do relationships, that after some guy you - you didn’t do them.”

McCree rolls his eyes, and privately vows to punch whoever talked to Gabe. “It was one dumb boyfriend when I was twenty who really wasn’t that important, and I wasn’t avoiding relationships, I just didn’t find anyone that I would want to be in one with.” He takes a raspy breath, steels himself. “Until now.” Gabe’s eyes snap up to him from where he had been looking down at his hands. “I’ve been showin’ my interest in you for goddamn years, Gabe. I just thought you didn’t want to deal with the,” he waves a hand in the air, winces as it jostles his shoulder. “Everything about who we are and our positions. You care too much to let personal life screw up what we've worked hard for.”

A slow smile is tugging at the corner of Gabe’s lips. “I took a close look at the code of conduct and fraternization rules, you know. Want to know the best thing about them not letting me have a second in command?’ McCree shakes his head as Gabe stands, bends over the bed. “You’re not my second in command so their rules can go fuck themselves,” he breathes against McCree’s mouth before catching his lips in a deep kiss. They both desperately need to brush their teeth, but none of it matters right then. The only thing that does is that they’re both on the same page, finally.

Angela gives a discreet knock on the closed door, and by the time she opens it Gabe is sitting in the visitor chairs, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. She checks over a few things and deems McCree ready to leave the facility, but he’s off of any training or missions for at least a week and not until she clears him. She gives a final order of no strenuous activity, flicking her eyes over both of them pointedly before leaving.

Gabe grabs a pair of standard Overwatch-issue sweats from the cupboard full of them, and helps McCree get dressed. He walks him back to his quarters, and waits outside the bathroom door listening for any issues while McCree showers. McCree insists on Gabe showering as well, and pointedly pulls him over to the bed when he hesitates afterwards, wearing a pair of McCree’s sweatpants.

“Can you elaborate?” McCree asks, when it’s dark and they’re quietly laying next to each other and breathing each other’s air. “On the fraternization thing.”

“It’s all about what’s official. You know that technically relationships between anyone in Over- or Blackwatch is banned, though they rarely enforce it. What they do keep an eye on is chain-of-command abuses. If you were officially my second, there would be major problems. To this day HR keeps an eagle eye on Jack and Ana, even though she’s married with a kid. But you’re not my second. What’s important is that there is nothing on paper actually placing me in command of you outside of being a Blackwatch member, the org chart just says we’re members of the same team despite my status.”

“Still not ideal, bein' in the same group. I’m guessin’ we still shouldn’t flaunt anything.”

“Definitely not. I would prefer if basically nothing changed professionally. But...we can have this. If you want.”

McCree wraps a hand around Gabe’s wrist, feels the strong pulse there, the steadiness. “I want.”

 

january

A year into their relationship, and things are going well. They make sure not to touch any more than two normal colleagues outside of their quarters, but they’re pretty much the worst kept secret in Overwatch. Everyone knows that if they can’t find Commander Reyes, then they should look for McCree. Or if McCree is needed, they may as well check the commander’s office first. Jack spent six months rolling his eyes and waiting for it to implode before metaphorically washing his hands of it. McCree didn’t get out of being cornered in the kitchen one day, though, and for the remainder of his life he’ll find few things as nerve-wracking as the strike commander quietly threatening him over his oldest friend.

They collaborate with Gérard Lacroix at the new facilities in Rome. McCree finds himself uncontrollably suspicious and jealous of his shared history with Gabe until they meet his lovely wife Amélie and he sees how much he loves her. Gabe just finds it all amusing.

Gérard brings them in one day, tells them about a new Talon operative they should be worried about, Antonio Bartalotti. They end up spending their evening pulling bodies out of rubble, and McCree is worried about the frustration and anxiety he sees in the corners of Gabe’s eyes.

 

april

The night after they get back from Venice, Moira and Genji share a look and pointedly avoid being anywhere near Gabe’s quarters. The next morning Ana walks into the kitchen to make tea, and doesn’t comment on Gabe’s black eye or McCree’s split lip, nor the marks speckling the skin that's barely hidden by shirt collars.

“I hope it’s out of your system,” she says quietly. “Because you have no idea of the storm that is descending.”

 

april

It was worse than any of them imagined, a year of damage control and trying to complete missions while hiding from both the public and Overwatch. The whole group was suspended at the new year, and most of the general pool has either left, retired, or been absorbed into Overwatch. Moira was disavowed in a shitstorm that had Jack and Gabe not talking to each other for weeks, leaving McCree and Ana to coordinate their everyday duties.

The strike teams are all still there, and Gabe will sometimes ask someone to do a favor for him. Not a mission, never a mission, just a little favor. Bring a friend, maybe. They could get out of Switzerland, take some time off. When Jack and Ana discover Gabe monitoring McCree in London, though, they somehow don’t believe him when he claims he’s on vacation.

Finally Jack flatly states: “You can’t think I’d believe you would ever let McCree go on vacation without you going along,” and Gabe can’t think up a defense to that. The information is useful, though, and the only reason that Jack’s team survives.

There are fractures, and they’re growing every day.

 

may

Genji leaves. McCree doesn’t blame him, but it hurts all the same.

 

july

Gérard is dead. The funeral is as much for what became of Amélie as it is for him. Gabe stops sleeping through the night.

 

september

Ana is dead. She goes on a mission and just doesn’t come back. McCree doesn’t understand that. People like Ana Amari don’t get killed on mere missions. They’re greater than that.

 

december | january

McCree welcomes in the new year with Gabe snoring on his chest, a line of drool matting down his chest hair. The idea of starting the new year as you mean to go on is a nice one, and McCree had originally intended it to be accompanied by orgasms. As he lies back in bed watching the snow fall silently outside with a warm and heavy weight wrapped around him he thinks _No, this works too_.

The world is falling apart, but he has this. He has Gabe.

 

february

“You need to leave.”

McCree had woken to find the sheets cold beside him, despite the fact it was only five am. He’d pulled on a shirt and wandered through the corridors to the kitchen, grabbing two mugs of coffee. He bumped the door to Gabe’s office open with a hip, setting a cup down next to him and hiding a yawn behind a hand. It now takes him a second to process the words.

“Leave...your office?”

“Leave here. Leave Blackwatch.”

“And what, get reassigned to Overwatch?”

“No, Jesse.” Gabe makes a sound of frustration. “Leave the whole organization, all of it.”

McCree sets his mug down. He’s not thirsty any longer and he is far, far too awake.

“This is my home, Gabe. For almost fifteen years. I’m not leavin’.” It’s preposterous. This is where McCree belongs, by Gabe’s side, them against the world.

“It’s no one’s home any more. They’re about to officially shut down Blackwatch, citing corruption and human rights abuses. Today or tomorrow. If you stay they’ll arrest you, or worse.”

“What’s worse than bein’ arrested? This is just -”

“They’ll take you and never tell anyone, just make you disappear and sweep you under the rug, just like we’ve done to criminals for years and years.”

He’s a mask of angles, tension pulling sharp cheekbones and drawn brows into flat planes of anger and fear. He looks up at McCree, who rocks back on his heels at the emotion behind it all.

“If you have ever loved the organization, ever…” he doesn’t say _loved me_ but it echoes on his ragged breaths, “You need to go. It’s a sinking ship and I need you to save yourself, I need to know you’re safe and far away from here.”

Gabe’s face is calm, but his eyes are trying to hide desperation and fear.

“I’m not leavin’ you, Gabe. If I go, you go.”

He’s already shaking his head. “Not how it works. I can’t. I’m too tied in to everything. If there’s even the slightest hope of coming out the other side of this, I have to be here.” Gabe takes a breath, bites his lower lip in an unconscious show of vulnerability. “Don’t make me disavow you so I can get you out. Go on your own terms.” The words are pulled from him unwillingly, painfully.

McCree feels cold, like the air around him has turned to fog. He doesn’t know what happened to spark this reaction, but he knows Gabe, knows he wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t important. Wasn’t true.

“How long…”

“Now. You should go now. Pack what you need to survive and take the first Orca flight you can.”

McCree takes a step back, then another, pushed by the weight of Gabe’s regard. He looks at him for a long moment, then turns and walks back to his quarters.

He pulls his largest bag out and mechanically packs it, leaving behind everything with Overwatch or Blackwatch symbols. It doesn’t leave him with much. He takes Peacekeeper and his knives, a few keepsakes, spends some precious time debating over books. McCree marches through the empty Blackwatch hallways until he gets to Gabe’s quarters. He types in the override code, slipping in just long enough to snatch Gabe’s old dog tags off of where they’ve hung for years on a thumbtack that holds up a picture of the first strike team McCree was part of. He loops them around his neck, tucking them down underneath his layers against too-warm skin. He takes a deep breath, taking in as much of the scent of Gabe and his citrus cologne and the sex they’d had in here two days ago as he can before shutting the door.

On his way to the hangar he sends a message. He’s about to exit the hallway to the airspace when he’s slammed against a wall, his hat knocked to the ground. Gabe holds him so tightly his ribs creak, kisses him so hard his lip splits against McCree’s teeth. McCree licks the blood away, winds a hand into a shirtfront and the other into hair as he holds on tightly. Gabe kisses him like it’s the end of his world, and it’s McCree who finally steps back.

“I’m only going because I know you’ll come back to me someday,” he says quietly, determinedly.

Gabe smiles sadly. He leans forward to kiss McCree softly on the forehead, leaving a faint smear of blood, then backs up a few steps. McCree walks halfway to the Orca and can’t stop himself from looking backwards. Gabe is standing next to Jack, both watching him. Jack gives a single nod, then turns away. Gabe has his arms crossed in a way that looks like he’s holding himself together. McCree turns back towards the Orca and doesn’t look back again.

 

march

McCree watches the news of the explosion from a bar in Albuquerque. He didn’t mean to stop here - it’s too close to Deadlock territory, too close to bad memories, but the truck he’s been using cracked an axel. He watches the rippling flags and the statues of Jack juxtaposed with billowing smoke and flame, listens to the effusive praise of Overwatch and what all it’s accomplished, along with subtle jabs at their recent problems. The word ‘hero’ is used so often it loses all meaning. Gabe is only mentioned in passing, other than unsubtle hints by rumor-mongering talking heads that an argument between rival commanders in Overwatch was what caused the incident.

He drinks until his mouth tastes like battery acid, until his nose is numb. He lays in the bed of his truck with his serape folded under his head and stares blindly up at the stars that Gabe will never see again.

 

march

*

 

march

*

 

march

*

 

march

He loses his arm in an accident in Australia. He’s gunrunning for some Junkers, chased into some cliffside caves by their adversaries. One throws a grenade a little too accurately, and it brings the cliff down on him. McCree is trapped for two days, until the delirium of heatstroke is enough to drive him to shoot his pinned arm free. The only thing that saves him, ironically, is the dehydration, his blood sluggish enough in his veins to not geyser forth from the ragged stump.

In lieu of payment the Queen lets him recuperate then sends him to Bruce, who turns him over to a mechanic with more gears than flesh. He builds McCree a prosthetic, the bronze skull on the forearm a whim of the mechanic that McCree likes despite himself. He doesn’t miss the tattoo.

 

march

*

 

march

McCree doesn’t steal the train. He really, really doesn’t. It all gets blown out of proportion, especially with the bounty and all, but he can’t say it doesn’t get him a few jobs along the way. He was recognized by the one Talon agent, right before those brain cells holding memory disintegrated into red and gray mush. That was bad. McCree had spent a lot of time and effort disappearing, how would it look if every two-bit lackey knew who he was? Along with the useful jobs that come his way are a bunch of dimwits who thought they knew him once upon a time, wanting him to take out this person or steal that thing.

It’s almost a relief a few weeks later when he gets the message from Winston.

 

may

He puts it off for a few months, can’t just waltz back in like nothing ever happened. There are familiar faces and new ones, all jumbled together. McCree finds himself on a roof one day with Genji, leaning against a vent and smoking a cigar as the mechanical man kneels with perfect posture. He’s completely covered with metal now, not even the bit of arm and torso showing like back in their Blackwatch days. McCree doesn’t know if the skin is gone now, the humanity fully subsumed, or he just discovered a better suit, better fashion and mechanics. In private moments like this he’ll lift his visor to reveal his eyes, but he only ever does it around McCree and his brother. They’re not red the way they used to be. McCree hasn’t bothered to figure Hanzo out, but he figures Genji will talk about how they reconciled when he’s ready.

“Can’t believe I’m sayin’ it, but I think I might miss the uniforms.”

“No, you do not.”

“That so.”

“You miss the organization.”

McCree puffs for a few minutes. He does. They’re all too...disjointed now. Just sitting here on this roof, he and Genji look like someone cut pages from two comic books and stuck them together for amusement’s sake. They have Reinhardt in his armor, Lúcio with his music and hard light, Hana with her giant mech...they’re a bunch of characters grabbed from a dozen fictions, a clumsy mess that have only been able to handle things so far because they haven’t had any real threats.

 

june

Jack is alive. Ana is alive. McCree doesn’t know which one is more of a shock. He likes Winston, he really does, but when he sees Jack striding down the hallway for the first time with that inimitable walk of his that can’t be disguised by numbers or visors, his first thought is _thank fuck, maybe we’ll get some discipline around this place_. He doesn’t take charge, though, and McCree can’t blame him.

He doesn’t see Ana for a while, she spends needed time with Fareeha. She finds him one day holed up in a lounge that belonged to Blackwatch a lifetime ago, and sits next to him on the couch, narrow arm wrapped around broad shoulders. He tilts his head into her chest, and as she runs thin fingers through his hair he realizes this is the first time he’s been touched for non-medical purposes without ill intent in years and years.

“You’re here.”

“Yes.”

“Jack’s here.”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t continue, but she knows what he means. Who he means.

They’re all older now - McCree has worn lines on his face from sun and squinting and stress, Ana’s tattoo is faded and her surviving eye has lost some of its brightness, Jack has vicious scars cutting across his handsome face. Jack and Ana’s hair has all gone totally white, and McCree can’t help but wondering what he would look like, if he was still alive.

 

november

It’s a cold, blustery day. Half the buildings in the abandoned town are on fire, so McCree doesn’t notice right away that the smoke is gathering oddly. He’s sitting on a crate, breaths slowing and gun loose in his hands as he comes down from the adrenaline high of the firefight, when he watches the smoke swirl up into a column. It solidifies on a clear patch of floor a dozen feet away, one of the only places not covered in fresh blood and meat and bullet-riddled metal. McCree recognizes the figure, of course he does. The Reaper, who has been taking out Overwatch agents for years now.

Peacekeeper is in his hand, but resting on his leg. He lets it, because Reaper’s hands are empty. He’s seen the videos, he knows how fast those shotguns can appear, but he also knows how fast he is and exactly how many seconds it would take to get off chest and head shots.

They just look at each other for awhile. Well, McCree looks, he assumes the man ( _or whatever he is_ ) is looking too - it’s hard to tell through the mask.

“You look ridiculous.”

McCree’s mouth moves automatically, retorting something about a mirror. His brain is blank, though. He knows that voice, even as smoky and rough as it is. Looking with narrowed eyes, adding in the weight of unfamiliar armor and weapons, he knows the body too, the stance.

“How?”

 ~~His commander~~ ( _no_ ) ~~Reyes~~ ( _no_ ) ~~Gabe~~ ( _NO_ ) Reaper just stands there for another thirty seconds before dissolving into a cloud of smoke that clears into thin air. McCree stands up, head twisting violently around, gun looking for a target, until he sees smoke where it shouldn’t be up on a distant roof. It’s far enough away that he can’t quite tell but he thinks he sees the head turn towards him before the figure jumps down off the other side of the building. His finger tightens on the trigger but doesn’t pull.

 

still november

“Did you know?”

The kitchen is full of people, Torbjörn making a stack of pancakes for everyone while Zarya does something with a massive number of eggs and sausages. Everyone falls silent at the viciously spat out question, faces turning towards McCree and then the subject of his glare. Despite everything she hasn’t truly looked old until now, rubbing at the side of her empty eye socket with a pained look on her face.

The silence is broken not by Ana but by a gravelly voice sitting in the lounge on the couch. His head turns, and though the only thing visible is the side of the visor McCree knows Jack is looking at him.

“Would it have changed anything?”

“...it changes _everything_.”

A laugh. There’s no humor in it, only plate tectonics. “A dozen dead agents beg to differ.”

“You know what I mean.”

“It’s not him. Not anymore.”

“Are you sure?”

Silence. Jack’s head turns back. Ana’s hand is covering her remaining eye. McCree turns and leaves, placing each foot carefully so he doesn’t shake apart.

 

april

There are new buds on the trees and flowers blooming along the side of the road, but none of it is visible in the darkness. It was a two man mission, just grab the glowing metal box that Angela insisted was vital and get out. Instead he and Oxton enter the room and find it already full of angry gang members with dayglo face paint and hands full of bullets.

Oxton blinks out of danger and McCree legs it back through the labyrinthine warehouse as fast as he can, the sounds of pursuit behind him. She gets on the com, saying that she’s going to ride back to their local base and return with backup. McCree gives a grunt in response. Chances are that the gang members and the box will be long gone by the time she got back, but he can’t spare the breath to argue.

A soundless thump comes from behind him, and McCree curses at the unmistakable feel of an EMP wave. He tries activating his com to no effect. Now it’s just him, a building full of angry gang members, and whoever set off that EMP because he doubts the gang was at that level of tech given the weapons he’d seen.

McCree takes stairs up whenever he can - he’ll need the vantage point to signal Oxton whenever she returns. He lost the gang members quickly - despite his spurs he can be quiet when he chooses to. The roof is large and littered with various chimneys and tower vents. It’s surprisingly bright, the full moon shining down and casting sharp shadows. McCree sits back in the shadow of a chimney, half knelt in a position that he can hold for hours if he needs to.

It’s too high up to hear much - just the quiet sounds of wind and the desert at night. McCree finds himself nearly relaxed, his only goal now to keep his ears sharp for the sound of transportation. Instead, after an hour or so, he hears a soft footstep on the gritty surface of the roof. Tensing and standing, he silently melts back further into the shadows. The footsteps are closer now, and McCree readies Peacemaker, a hand wrapped around the barrel to hide any glints.

A black shape steps into sight, and McCree has his gun pointed for a headshot in a split second.

He doesn’t take it.

The bone white mask seems to glow in the cold light of the moon, and it turns towards McCree, tilting a bit as if in question. They stay in a frozen tableau - mask, gun, two men with a gulf between them.

“You’re not going to shoot me.” It’s unclear if it’s a statement or a question. McCree doesn’t lower his arm.

“Are you alive?”

The sound of desert wind grows stronger, Reaper’s coat fluttering silently. “Do you want me to be?”

McCree realizes he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know if it would be better for Gabe to be alive and hiding from him or dead and resurrected into whatever this is.

“I’m something else now. Something that SEP did to me, along with Moira.” The raspy words are nearly whipped away on the wind.

“You’ve been killin’ Overwatch agents off.”

“I’ve been taking what was due to me. To us. They’re the ones that tore us apart, tore Blackwatch apart.”

McCree is quiet. He didn’t know any of the agents that were killed, he just knew that they had been there in the old days. He doesn’t know if Reaper is right or not. Not sure if he wants to.

“Are you going to kill Jack? Ana?”

The wind whistles into the quiet. “They left me to become this.”

“They miss you.” A lie, perhaps. Maybe they do. McCree hasn’t asked them.

Reaper hasn’t moved so much as a muscle since stepping into McCree’s view. McCree lowers his gun, takes one step forward, then another.

“I miss you.” Truth.

“The man you miss is gone.”

This close, McCree can see the changes, even in the harsh moonlight. There’s visible skin under the leather wraps between sleeve and glove, but it’s too pale, too cool-toned to be Gabe’s warm dark flesh. He holsters his pistol without looking, and slowly raises his hands. Reaper doesn’t stop him. McCree reaches up and carefully places his hands, thumbs on bone cheekbones and fingers sliding back until he feels the edges of the mask. He pauses to let Reaper retreat if he wants to before he pulls it off, letting it fall to the roof with a dull sound.

It’s almost as if someone took a grainy photo of Gabriel Reyes and ran it over with a car a few times. His hair is black, darker than McCree has ever seen on him, and the ends of it twine out into smoke. His skin is that same ashen color, stretched thin over cheekbones that are too close to the surface. It’s faintly mottled, irregular patches of lightness and darkness as if he stood too long in one place and let lichen take hold. All the bones of his face are just a bit off, a completed jigsaw puzzle that someone dropped and didn’t bother to smooth out after.

“Will you look at me?” Reaper’s eyes are closed, lashes dark against grey skin.

“I don’t think you want me to do that, Jesse.” McCree sees a glint of teeth behind lips that are almost right. They’re too long, too sharp, too white.

McCree traces a familiar cheekbone with a thumb, before cupping a knife-edged jawline. “Please.”

Reaper’s eyes open

\- his eyes open

\- his eyes open

\- his eyes open.

There are so many, so very many of them, all a pupil-less red. Each of Gabe’s scars has turned into an eyelid, parting on his cheek, nose, forehead, even the small one on his lower lip that McCree had loved to dig his teeth into. They all blink at him, focusing on his face. The long scar on his cheek has multiple eyeballs in it, making it look like some small creature has taken up residence in Reaper’s cheek.

Reaper’s original eyes are unchanged in shape but are red like all the rest, somehow so much colder than Gabe’s warm brown irises despite their color. The whites of them are now black as pitch. They move over McCree’s face, cataloguing new lines, scars, the wear and tear of life. A clawed hand raises, mirrors McCree’s earlier movement by moving over his cheek, following the faint line of a nearly healed cut.

“I didn’t want you to ever see me like this.”

McCree lays a hand on thick chest armor. “Is it still...you under there?”

“More or less.”

His hand moves up, twines in smoky hair that isn’t quite solid enough to be caught. “And up here? Do you...remember everything?” _Remember me? Remember us?_

Reaper’s many many eyes are full of despair.

“Yes.” His eyes all close.

McCree tugs with the hand in Reaper’s hair. He resists for a moment before letting himself be pulled forward. McCree meets his mouth delicately, just a dry touch of lips. There’s a broken noise in the back of Reaper’s throat, and he surges forward, catching McCree’s mouth in a brutally hard kiss. His arms are too tight around McCree, his mouth pressing harshly forward, like he’s forgotten how fragile normal humans are. McCree has never been exactly normal, however, especially where the man who is now Reaper was involved. He kisses back just as fiercely, one hand still in Reaper’s hair and the other clutching his collar.

McCree pulls back with a curse after he’s licked his way into Reaper’s mouth. His teeth are so sharp, nearly razor-like on the sides. There’s a thin rivulet of blood streaming down the side of McCree’s mouth. He reaches a finger in to touch his tongue, and winces at the deep slice. Reaper reaches up to wipe the blood away, staring at the bright red smear on his metal-clawed thumb before licking it away with a too-pale tongue. McCree finds a thread of arousal winding its way down his body, the first he’s felt it in years. Ignoring his tongue he moves back in, somewhat more careful this time.

Reaper’s mouth is cool, like he’d been sucking on ice until just a minute before. McCree does his best to warm it up with saliva and blood and growing lust. He pulls back, catching his breath, and Reaper’s head drops to rest against his shoulder.

“Can you...still do things, feel things?” McCree has never been a particularly tactful person, but figures he’d try for once.

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried.” Reaper’s voice is muffled against McCree’s chest, the rasp covering whatever else he might be feeling.

“There hasn’t been anyone else. Since you,” McCree finds himself saying with unexpected honesty, and he exhales heavily as Reaper’s arms tighten further.

A quiet sound, almost more pressure than noise, fills the air. Both men’s heads jerk up, Reaper dissolving in McCree’s arms only to reappear several feet away as a darker patch of black amongst shadows. It’s a familiar sound to both of them - the Orca. Oxton is back. McCree turns, Reaper’s eyes shining out at him from the dark like so many tail lights.

“That’s my ride.”

“I’ll find you again.”

“Can you...can you try not to kill any more of us? You’re runnin’ out of people I don’t care about.”

“No promises.” It doesn’t sound like agreement, like he cares about anyone being left alive other than McCree.

His com is still dead, so McCree tosses a flashbang to signal the ship onto the roof some distance in front of him. When he’s lowered his hand from where he shielded his eyes, Reaper is nowhere to be found. For the best, he supposes. Less to explain to Oxton and whoever she brought with her. The Orca hovers, not enough room to land. McCree catches a rope and climbs up it into the open hatch door.

“You okay, love? You’ve got some blood there.” Oxton’s quick hand touches at his jaw for just a moment.

McCree licks a finger, rubs away the last traces of blood. “I’m just fine, darlin’.”

From across the Orca, Jack pauses in the small adjustments he’s making to his visor. Blue eyes that have always seen too much meet McCree’s, before dropping back down to his work. McCree leans back against the seat, rubbing the already-sealing cut against the roof of his mouth.

 

july

It’s swelteringly hot, and McCree’s bare back has dust and splinters and god knows what else glued to it by sweat. He writhes on the ancient mattress, making more dust puff out from the edges. Reaper’s nails scratch marks down his side - even without the metal claws his fingernails are just a bit too sharp. McCree jerks as Reaper tries to bite at a nipple. They’re still figuring out how to deal with his teeth. Reaper laps up the drop of blood that springs up, cool tongue providing a contrast to the heavy, humid air.

Nimble fingers pluck McCree’s belt loose, the fly open and zipper down in a moment. It’s annoying to unstrap the chaps and holster so McCree just shoves everything down far enough to let his cock loose. Reaper never looks more wrong than when contrasted with McCree’s vitality. His cock is full and thick and flushed, the head a vibrant red against Reaper’s grey cheek. As he mouths his way up McCree’s length, McCree can close his eyes and almost pretend that they’re back in his quarters in Switzerland, safe and sound.

A bright line of something that straddles pain and pleasure, and McCree’s hips jerk up. Reaper is licking the thin line of blood away from where a tooth ( _fang?_ ) snagged just under the flare of the head. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure how…” he trails off, frustrated. This is their first time getting intimate like this, their few previous meetings restricted to frantic kisses before McCree has to get back to his mission.

“Just...no teeth. Everything else.” McCree is barely finished with the sentence before his neck is arching back, a groan yanked out of him from the feel of Reaper’s tongue curling around him, longer than it should be. It’s strange, the wetness of it so much cooler than normal body temperature that his body doesn’t recognize it as familiar. He’s leaked enough at this point that Reaper’s hand is a smooth slide up and down, tongue and lips moving over every bit of skin they can reach. McCree finds he doesn’t miss the suction of the inside of a mouth at all, not when the pressure of Reaper’s hand is so perfect, his tongue so smooth. If he keeps his own eyes closed he doesn’t see the eyes blinking up at him, the lid of the little one on his lip forced closed by movement.

McCree’s hand tightens on Reaper’s hair as his tongue flicks over the earlier cut, and his back arches violently. He means to give a warning, but he can’t breathe, only make small choking noises. Reaper’s hand works him through it, memory letting him know just how long to keep pumping before McCree gets oversensitive. It’s his first orgasm by a hand not his own since he slept with Gabe the night before he left, six years ago. It’s his first orgasm at all in at least...eight months? Something like that. At some point arousal was something that fell by the wayside of his life. McCree forces his eyes open, only to have them roll back in his head at the sight of Reaper contentedly swiping a line of come off of his cheek and licking it off a finger.

He reaches a hand down, tugs Reaper up so he can steal a kiss. His armor and jacket are off, but he’s still fully dressed. McCree drags a hand down his chest, rucks up his shirt to reveal hard muscle under dappled skin, rests it on the silver belt buckle. Reaper stills, to the point where McCree can’t even sense him breathing.

“Can I?”

A stiff nod, and McCree is flicking open the buckle. The zipper comes down without any help from McCree, pressure from underneath pushing it open. Reaper lets out a pained sound as McCree ghosts his hand over his covered cock.

“Okay?”

Another nod, followed by Reaper finally laying back onto the mattress in a parody of relaxation. McCree pulls everything down to mid thigh, and Reaper springs up hard before him. If it wasn’t for the color, it’s like they went back in time - the curved shape of him as familiar as his own. McCree rubs a thumb over the shiny wet head - greyed skin flushed an odd shade of purple - before leaning forward, eyes closing as his head sinks down. He’s a bit rusty, but everything comes back to him quickly, including that spot right under the crown that makes Reaper’s nails tear through the mattress with a grunt.

He’s just getting into the groove, head going all the way down to touch his lips to his hand wrapped around the base, when there’s a hand pulling at his head.

“Get off get _off_ I don’t think you should swallow -” Reaper cuts himself off with a groan that sounds nearly painful. McCree obediently pulls off, jacking him with a firm hand. He cries out McCree’s name when he convulses, curling forward before his back curves and his hips jerk. McCree watches in fascination as black marbled come splashes against his grey chest. The familiar translucent white has threads and ropes of darkness running through it, somehow keeping separate and never mixing to grey. McCree fumbles on the floor until he finds his discarded bandanna and wipes up the mess. They both watch in horrified bemusement as the semen eats holes through the fabric as easily if they had spattered it with acid.

McCree isn’t due back to base until the next day, so they curl up the best they can on an abandoned mattress in a trashed out building.

Reaper’s tears are black, now.

 

september

They’re nearly caught in France. McCree is in an alleyway, waiting for the parade and its attendant assassins to go by so he and Genji can pincer in and take them down before they go for the city councilman. The parade is still a slow half-mile off, and McCree is sitting on a crate. Reaper is balanced on his thighs, their respective chest armor clanking quietly against each other with each small movement. Reaper gives careful nips to McCree’s throat, and McCree’s thinking about how much privacy they might have tucked behind the dumpster behind him when there’s a flicker of rich blue fabric from the corner of his eye. Reaper is gone in an instant, presumably materializing somewhere nearby but under cover.

Ana narrows her eye as she looks around the alleyway. “Have you seen anything? Lena reported seeing someone headed this way, twenty minutes ago.”

McCree shrugs, still feeling Reaper’s absent weight on his thighs. “No one’s dared show their face. Just been waitin’ for the parade to show up.”

She paces down the alleyway, peering behind the dumpster and glaring up at the surrounding roofs. “I was feeling watched earlier. I don’t like this.”

Ana comes over to stand by McCree, takes what looked like a walking stick and pops the cover off the end of the barrel, snaps the stock in. As her hands move automatically to reassemble her rifle, she nods at McCree’s neck. “You’re bleeding.”

He touches a finger to the set of thin scratches, rubbing the traces away into nothingness. “Must’ve nicked myself shaving.”

“Hmph.” A sharp eye glance over shaggy facial hair and overgrown stubble, before turning away to pay attention to the passing parade.

 

november

“Do you have lube?”

“What for?”

Hands that haven’t shed their clawed gloves yet part his legs.

“No.”

“But I -”

“You have noticed that you come acid, right? Do you really think that’s gettin’ anywhere near inside me?”

Quiet.

“Take these off. Turn over.”

“I thought you said you didn’t have lube.”

A reluctant sigh. “I have gun oil.”

 

march

It’s downright hospitable, given where he usually spends nights on a mission. An abandoned motel, not far from where McCree was picked up twenty-odd years ago by Reyes as a teenager. McCree is alone, having gotten there first by dint of being on a mission in California the day before. The rest of the team will join him tomorrow, but tonight belongs to him.

Him and the man who delicately bites into his side, blood rushing to fill the spaces teeth had left. McCree’s torso is covered in similar bites, blood trickling down his sides in thin streams. He jerks up, cock blurting out a thick drip of precome as there’s a bite to his thigh, then another to his hip. At some point in the year they’ve been doing this, something got rewired in his brain, confusing where pain and pleasure are supposed to go. They’ve had to change a lot of things about how they fuck - Reaper can never come on McCree or anything he cares about, McCree has to use a condom when he tops or he somehow ends up with what looks like burns, they each have their reasons for being very very careful when they blow each other. They make it work, though.

The hip bite is deep, and Reaper sweeps his fingers across is and gathers the blood up. He uses it to make the slide of his hand slicker on McCree’s cock, swiping up more from his chest when it becomes tacky. McCree likes the pain and is indifferent to the blood, but it _fascinates_ Reaper. He jacks him until it’s too dry, then licks every speck of redness off like a child with an ice cream cone. The narrow tip of his tongue swipes down into McCree’s slit to get the last bits, and McCree curses as he thrusts up. His orgasm consumes him, and there’s a timeless moment that happens in the middle where he feels contentment and peace. Then he’s jerking a bit with the aftershocks, a man with a face full of eyes and wolf teeth is licking him clean, and he’s back to reality.

As Reaper makes his way up his body, the setting sun catches something distantly red and reflective through the open window. McCree squints at it a moment, before turning to the mouth that’s begging for his attention. He pushes at Reaper’s shoulder until he’s turned around, his back snugged to McCree’s front. McCree holds a hand up for Reaper to lick, then he’s reaching down and slowly pulling on his dick, its temperature too cool even as it’s hard and leaking. He tightens his grip and speeds up, listening to the movement in air in Reaper’s windpipe for cues. He’s gently nibbling on Reaper’s neck - he only made the mistake of drawing blood once, and couldn’t taste anything for a week - and absently staring out the window when his eye catches the red thing again. A car reflector, maybe, though it’s too high up for it.

McCree hooks a leg over Reaper’s thighs to hold him down as he starts to buck up. He loses control of his body more easily now - McCree thinks he’s so focused on keeping himself together the rest of the time that he doesn’t know what to do anymore when faced with pleasure. Reaper comes with a sound like being punched, McCree carefully pointing his cock off the edge of the bed. The carpet was ugly anyways.

As Reaper tucks his head against McCree’s sweaty chest, McCree glances out the window one last time before closing his eyes, seeing nothing but golden hills and darkening sky.

Reaper isn’t there in the morning when he wakes. McCree is just glad he doesn’t have to deal with the risk of him still being there when the team shows up.

Oxton bounces her way in, meeting him in the lobby with Hanzo sedately following behind. They’ve talked most of the way through their plan of attack when Jack finally shows. They’re all suiting up together, checking armor. McCree is fastening the buckles of his chaps when he notices Jack’s gaze on him. “Everythin’ okay?”

Jack looks at him for a long moment, then turns to clip his faceplate and visor into position. McCree looks at the shiny red eyescreen, and a wave of cold adrenaline sweeps over him. Jack just turns away, grumbling at Oxton to get ready to fly out.

 

april

It’s almost the end of the month, and somehow Ana has roped McCree into helping her do supply orders. He squints at the sheet and wonders how much tea they really need, when he notices a lack of movement beside him. He glances over to see Ana staring out the window at the cliffs outside, hand paused midway through stirring her tea.

McCree digs in a pocket and a moment later a coin rolls over, toppling against the saucer with a clink. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Ana picks up the coin, long ago having been eliminated from circulation but somehow still around, and turns it over in her hands. “Are you happy, Jesse?”

He leans back. “Awfully deep question to ask a man who’s tryin’ to buy you a pallet of tea.”

She rolls the penny back at him, and he flips it over his knuckles before tucking it back in his pocket. “I know you left Overwatch -” McCree clears his throat and Ana rolls her eyes, “ _Black_ watch under less than ideal circumstances. You’re back, now, for most of a year. Are you happy?”

McCree stands, gestures for Ana to follow. They move out into the golden-hued air, the warm spring evening now tainted some by the smoke of McCree’s cigar. Ana sits on a bench as McCree leans against a doorway.

“Back when I first returned, Genji told me I missed the organization. Not the, the -” he waves an arm to encapsulate Overwatch, “the institution, but the framework, the way it was all arranged. The system.”

“Surprising to hear, given I recall you fighting with that system every chance you got.”

McCree shrugs. “And if it all sprang forth just the way it had been right now, I’d be bitching about it in under a minute. But we had...support. All the intelligence we could ask for. Never had to worry about not havin’ enough ships, enough uniforms, enough biotics, even though I know Blackwatch didn’t have the resources that you lot did. We didn’t do our own purchase orders,” he says with a smile that’s there for just a moment before vanishing. “We had a unified vision, knew who the bad guys were. Now we’re stumblin’ through. We’ve all been through hell, and I know that I don’t always have my head on straight as to who’s right and who’s wrong anymore.”

Ana balances her cup on a knee, folds her hands in her lap. “It’s not all you miss from those days.”

McCree looks away, blows smoke out into the cooling air. “We’re all missing things from back then.”

“Does he make you happy?”

He doesn’t correct her misuse of present tense, wonders if she knows how she phrased it.

“He did.”

 

may

A week later, two am. McCree wakes from a dream of being trapped under rock, his arm stuck, no water for days, but when he reaches down for his gun to shoot himself free there’s nothing. His stump aches with a pain that neither a shower nor pills can fix, so he puts on enough clothing for decency and made his way to the training facilities.

One range is already occupied, the faint sound of pulse fire coming from behind the thick door. McCree enters the next range, taps at Athena’s screen to bring up a training weapon. He wants Peacekeeper but he’s not going to waste ammo when he’s wound tight and won’t be firing well anyways. He sets her aside, hefts the training gun with a grimace. He brings up the human target program, feeling the need to damage something like a person.

He spends an hour destroying pixels, but it doesn’t take away the edginess that his brain is dancing around. McCree shuts down the program, stores the training weapon, pulls out Peacekeeper. Straddling the long bench, he spreads out a towel and breaks her down into her smallest parts. Cleaning every bit of grime out and oiling her until she shines is meditative, something he’s done regularly for thirty years.

McCree hears the sound of the door, knows who it likely is, and keeps cleaning. Jack sits on the end of the bench, crossing his legs with a faint grunt. Jack rarely allows himself to be seen like this, just in a t-shirt and track pants without his armor. His shoulders are still intimidatingly broad, but his waist is much slimmer than one would think, normally disguised by ammo belts and guns. McCree isn’t ashamed to admit that having Strike Commander Morrison around helped him figure out his sexuality as a confused teenager. It never even made it to the level of a crush, but he still has a certain aesthetic appreciation for the man.

They’re not friends, he never knew Jack anywhere near the level that he knew Gabe or Ana. It’s a shared past, though, something that connects them more than most of the current Overwatch members. They sit in companionable silence, the only noises in the soundproofed room the slickness of oil on metal and the susurrus of fabric.

“You’re welcome to do mine, next.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start with all those electrical parts. There’s some tech in mine, but it’s all contained enough I don’t have to mess with it.”

McCree checks everything over, before reassembling the pistol and wiping his hands on the towel. He puts the cleaning kit back together and sets it down before fixing Jack with a look.

“You here for a reason?” It’s asked more politely, more curiously than the words would indicate.

Jack isn’t looking at McCree. He doesn’t have his visor on, it’s sitting with the neck hookup on the floor next to his rifle. The stubbled scruff and t-shirt make him look younger than his years, the dim yellow light of the range almost turning his hair back to blond. McCree waits.

“There hasn’t been an Overwatch agent killed in action for a year, now. There are also reports of Talon agents mysteriously turning up dead, their ops sabotaged.”

McCree is silent.

“Is that your doing?”

“Don’t rightly know what you mean, sounds like our people got better at surviving. Good for them.”

Jack sighs, rubs his largest scar in a practiced movement. “Don’t play the fool, McCree. It’s not attractive.”

The McCree of ten years ago would have said something flirtatious in return just to rile Jack up. The McCree of now sits and wonders how he can get out of this conversation.

“Is he...all right?”

McCree gives a sigh of his own, slumps in his seat, decides he’s too tired for games. “For certain values of all right.”

The air seems to go out of Jack at the confirmation of what he already knew. “I understand, I suppose, why he was doing what he did. We...Ana and I...we don’t hate him. Aren’t as angry anymore.”

“I told him that, a year ago. Lied to him, said you and Ana missed him to try and stop the killing. Didn’t seem to care.”

“He did stop, though.”

“Yeah.”

“For you.”

They’re quiet again, before Jack turns to him, just a bit. “My sources report he hasn’t been seen with Doomfist or the Widowmaker in months. Rumor says they’re looking for him, think he might be behind their recent troubles.”

McCree shrugs. “Dunno. We don’t talk shop.” They don’t. He knows that Reaper is friends (as much as he has friends) with Sombra, the amoral hacker who sells her skills to both the good and bad guys. Other than that he doesn’t talk about who he works with. McCree doesn’t know if he even really is working when they meet - he just shows up at the same place that McCree is every once in awhile. They don’t spend much time talking.

“Could -”

“I’m gonna stop you there, partner. I’m not his agent, I don’t know what he does when my eyes aren’t on him. I’m not your lackey or go-between. You want to talk to him, you find him.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “We’ve tried. Even tried to hire Sombra, but she just laughed then made Athena stream pornography for three hours.”

McCree’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t want to give Jack the satisfaction of seeing it.

“I’m not asking you to do anything. Just - tell him he can come home. If he wants. If we talked.”

Jack stands, gathers his things. He walks past McCree, stops, turns and puts a hand on his shoulder. Squeezes. Walks out of the range.

McCree sits looking at his shiny gun, and wonders why he feels like crying.

 

july

He’s sitting on the edge of a roof in Munich, legs gently kicking back and forth as he takes a long pull from the bottle of dark beer. A flicker, and a patch of living darkness settles beside him. McCree holds out the bottle, and he senses as much as sees Reaper shake his head. He realizes, unexpectedly, that he’s never seen Reaper as he is now consume anything, neither food nor drink. He has eaten of McCree, though - saliva and semen and blood. Maybe that’s enough to keep him going.

McCree takes the bottle back and swallows down the last of it. He looks over to see Reaper’s mask facing him, having been shamelessly watching his throat work. McCree smirks, but doesn’t take the bait. His conversation a few weeks ago with Jack is still in his head, and he isn’t sure how to talk about it with Reaper.

They don’t get to see each other much, perhaps once a month or so. McCree doesn’t know how Reaper finds him - it’s not every mission, not even every one that he ends up alone. Because their time is precious, they don’t spend it talking. Their mouths and bodies are trying to make up for years apart and the changes they’ve gone through, and it doesn’t leave much space for introspection. McCree realizes that he’s missed that part. His time with Gabe had never been all physical nor just work-related - it was talking about the book McCree had just read, or arguing over what the best hot sauce was, or conspiring to get a station dog one day.

McCree find that he doesn’t want to look at Reaper, can’t control what his face might look like.

Reaper shifts closer, bumps McCree’s shoulder with the edge of his shoulder armor. “You okay?”

“Not really.”

A fumbling noise, and Reaper’s mask is gently set on the ground behind them. “You want to talk about it?”

McCree makes a soft, ugly chuckle in the back of his throat. “No, but…” He looks out at the lights of the city until they’re steady, no longer wavering in his vision. “I like having you. Having you here with me. But it’s not...not enough. I miss what we had.”

He hears Reaper shift beside him, braces himself for the man to move away or turn into smoke. Instead he hears a raspy sigh. “Me too. I miss it all, sometimes,” he says, and McCree knows he’s not just talking about their relationship.

“Jack talked to me. He knows about us. Ana too, I suspect. Knows that you aren’t killin’ our people any more. He...he said you could come back.”

A deep, sarcastic chuckle. “He expects me to walk in there and have everything be okay? After slaughtering their colleagues. All the new kids who don’t know the history, don’t know why I did it.”

McCree finds his mouth moving without his brain getting involved. “Why did you stop?” As soon as the words are out, he wants to take them back. This fragile thing they have seems balanced on them never talking about anything that matters, anything that could tip it off its precipice.

Reaper doesn’t seem upset, though. Just tired. He sighs, strips off a glove so he can rub a hand over his hair, behind his neck. “I was full of so much hate for so long. Blackwatch was ripped away from me, I was left to suffer and die, I ended up like this. I woke up after the explosion, a little cloud of smoke back in the ruins of where your quarters were.” He gives a self-mocking chuckle. “Guess I was trying to get somewhere safe.”

“I figured out how to solidify. Went underground, tracked down Moira. She was with Talon, said that if I wanted her help I would be working with them. Used their resources to figure out what happened. Talon and Null Sector teamed up, had double agents placed so long ago that we hadn’t even known Talon was on the map back then. They were the ones behind all the shit in Italy, behind us being ripped apart from the inside. I know they said Jack and I were fighting, but we never were. We knew it was something else, something internal, but never could pin it down.”

McCree is biting his lip hard enough to draw blood so he won’t interrupt. Reaper is talking more now than he has in the past year and a half combined. It’s almost like he’s back.

“The people - they were mostly Overwatch, some Blackwatch. No one high up, no one that I knew well at all. They just fed back information and pulled us apart, thread by thread. I hunted them down, almost all of them, and I don’t regret it. They took everything from me.”

The pause is long enough that McCree tentatively asks a question. “Did you get them all?”

“I don’t know. I got all the ones I had names for. I was going to start on a deeper dive, was sure there were more that I just didn’t look hard enough for, but then I found you. And you asked me to stop.”

“And that was enough?”

“You made me remember that there was more to life than revenge. I didn’t realize I had that much humanity left in me but you…” he trails off, doesn’t pick the sentence back up.

McCree leans his shoulder against Reaper’s. “Still love you, y’know.”

Reaper leans back. “Me too. As much as I can, now.”

“Would you come back?”

“If it was you asking, not Jack.”

“It is.”

“If you can figure out a way to do it without getting me shot as soon as I’m through the door, then yes.”

“If we could deal with Genji’s brother, we can find a way to deal with you.”

“Mmm. I hope someone did find the time to kick him in the balls, though. I saw Genji when they first brought him in, and it was shocking they managed to keep him alive at all.”

“Don’t worry, he got a hard time. Genji was the one that made us rein it in.”

“He won’t be happy to find out who I am.”

“It’ll take time. We’ll figure it out.”

They spend the night fully clothed, arms wrapped around each other and talking quietly.

 

august

McCree talks to Jack and Ana. They’re suspicious, but Jack had meant what he said. They decide to present everything to the team as honestly as they can, then let everything cool down before any kind of in person meeting. McCree insists on there not being any big introduction, he just wants Reaper to be able to be there with him without being attacked. Jack and Ana agree.

Reaper finally gives McCree his heavily encrypted contact information, and they spend long nights talking through pros and cons. McCree is curled up in an armchair in a little-used lounge one night talking to him when Ana knocks on the door, asking if he’s seen her cleaning kit. McCree sees Reaper tense on the screen at the sound of her voice.

“You want to talk to her?” he asks.

Reaper takes a deep breath, puts his mask back on, and nods. McCree waves a confused Ana over, and hands her his tablet. She nearly drops it at seeing who’s on the screen, but stumbles her way over to a chair and sinks down into it. McCree moves to the other side of the room to give them some privacy. He’s dozed off on the couch when there’s a touch to his arm. Ana hands the tablet back, her single eye slightly red and too shiny.

“He said he’ll call back tomorrow.”

“You okay?”

She shakes her head in bafflement as she sits next to him on the couch. “It’s one thing for you to say he’s back, it’s another to actually talk to him with no violence. We met up in Giza, did I tell you that?”

McCree shakes his head. He never did find out how Jack and Ana knew who Reaper was.

“We were both still in hiding then, even from each other. Jack was looking for me, I was sabotaging Talon operations, Reaper was trying to figure out who was doing the sabotaging. It wasn’t a pleasant reunion. I was fairly sure the two of them were dead, but Jack had survived and had figured Gabriel had too. He shot Jack in the back, I kicked his ass, he pulled his smoke trick and that was the last time I saw him until just now.”

McCree sighs, sinks back into the couch. “Is this really going to work? I can’t tell what’s realistic and what’s just me thinking with my heart.”

Ana grins in a way that makes her seem like a teenager. “I don’t know if it’s just your heart doing the thinking, Jesse.” He gives a crooked grin back, pushes at her with a foot. “We’re all emotionally compromised here to one degree or another,” she continues. “That’s just how the situation is.”

“I don’t want to force him into becomin’ a member of Overwatch, trap him here or anything. I just want him to have a place to come home to, one that doesn’t have Talon’s fingerprints all over it. And then maybe, eventually…” McCree doesn’t even know what the future could be. He’s stumbling through this one wobbly step at a time.

The next night, McCree finds Jack in a training room. He shoves his tablet into his hands and walks away. Jack sets the tablet next to him in the kitchen an hour later. They don’t talk about it, and neither him nor Reaper say what they discussed. Jack is more confident afterwards that things will work out, though.

 

september

McCree isn’t there when they talk to the team. He’s at a hotel somewhere over the border into Spain, hand running through smoky curls as Reaper’s head rests on McCree’s lap. McCree had stuck a bug on the situation room wall and had intended to watch the talk with Reaper. After he’d turned in the formerly empty hotel room to see smoke streaming in and then solidifying into a form that stepped forward and wrapped him in tight arms and whispered “Thank you” into his ear...it was somehow less of a priority.

Reaper’s hand moves from where it had been tracing nonsense patterns on McCree’s shirt to flick the buttons open, one by one. McCree moves his arms down, letting Reaper tug the shirt off. He twists around, pulling McCree’s boots off and setting them aside. McCree wiggles his hips to help Reaper get his pants down, but mostly just succeeds in turning himself on. Reaper takes care of his own clothing by vanishing and reappearing a foot away, his empty clothes collapsing onto the bed.

Reaper lowers himself on top of McCree, but neither are in a hurry to do anything. He pulls the dogtags from where they fell to one side, and spreads them neatly out on McCree’s chest.

“You want them back?”

“I’m not that man anymore. They look better on you.”

McCree reaches up, draws Reaper down into a kiss. It’s slow and careful, almost indulgent. They don’t get to do this much, taking their time. But now, things will change. They’ll have all the time in the world. McCree likes the weight of Reaper on top of him, how he matches his own bulk, how he fills the space. He pulls his mouth away, so he can kiss over behind his ear and breathe in the smell of gunpowder and leather and somehow still citrus. The smell of home. Reaper stays busy, hands stroking down McCree’s chest and hips. He’s hard and ready, they both are, but they move slowly.

Curling a leg and pushing at a shoulder, McCree easily flips them around, letting him kiss his way down Reaper’s body. He nips at his side, tugs at his chest hair, rewarded with little sounds at the back of his throat that McCree is fairly sure he doesn’t know he’s making. That’s one thing that’s never changed. McCree reaches blindly over, grabs lube and a latex glove. He pulls it on with practiced motions, slicking up a finger before reaching down to ghost it over Reaper’s entrance. Their protection needs are a bit more complex now, but they barely notice anymore.

McCree opens him up slowly as he mouths up and down his cock, giving gentle nibbles every few inches. When Reaper starts to slowly tear through the sheets with his nails, McCree pulls his hand back and tosses the glove away, smoothing a condom down and following it with a swipe of lube. When Reaper moves to turn over, McCree puts a hand on his hip to stop him.

Reaper frowns. “I don’t want you getting burned, Jesse.”

His thighs push Reaper’s apart, and he moves in closer, pressed to Reaper’s entrance but not in yet. “I’ll be careful. I want - I want to see you tonight.” Reaper smiles crookedly, a fang catching on his lip, and when McCree pushes forward he opens so beautifully for him. Their sex lives are ruled by the changes to Reaper’s body and for the most part they roll with it. Tonight, though, McCree wants to see his lover’s face.

“Let me know when you’re close and I’ll pull back,” McCree whispers, as he leans down. His hips snap forward but muscled arms keep his upper body still, and he bends his head to catch Reaper’s mouth with his own. He misses this, breathing the same air as each other as he tries to fuck them into a single being. Reaper’s pupils are blown wide, thin rings of red iris in a sea of black inside and out. He reaches up, mouths at McCree’s neck, taking comfort in the expanse of flesh open to him.

He pulls away too quickly, a tooth catching and slashing skin. “Move - move back,” he pants, visibly trying to keep himself from losing it. McCree kisses him hard, then pushes himself upright so his thighs are under Reaper’s, one hand on a hip and one on his cock. The change in angle pulls an inhuman noise from deep in Reaper’s chest, his wrecked voice sounding even more abrasive than usual. It only takes a few more thrusts for him to clench tightly around McCree. This is what McCree loves, seeing this powerful, terrifying being fall apart before him, for him.. His release spatters on his own chest, stray droplets hissing where they hit the sheets. McCree closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, thrusting one two and _there_ oh just right there and he pants his orgasm to the ceiling as his hips slow.

Reaching over, McCree strips a pillowcase off and wipes down Reaper’s chest, the white fabric crumbling to blackened charcoal as he casts it over the side of the bed. He collapses back into the pillows, the air forced out of him as Reaper heaves himself over, half-covering him with his sex-drunk body. His head nudges at McCree’s chin, smoke from his hair tickling McCree’s nose. They breathe quietly together, bodies tingling in the afterglow.

“There’s still time to run, you know, if you don’t want to do it. I can pack a bag, we can just keep goin’ up into Spain,” McCree murmurs.

“No. It’s...not just for you anymore, I think I need to do this for me. Need to try and be a real person, as much as I can.” McCree strokes a hand down his back as he talks. “I can’t stay there, live there like you do full time. Not yet. I’ll find somewhere in Gibraltar. But I want to finish taking Talon down, want to…” He trails off. “I want things now that aren’t killing. That’s enough.”

McCree’s tablet across the room flashes with a message but he ignores it and wraps an arm around Reaper’s chest, looking down at him.

His face has smoothed of stress lines, his many eyes closed in a face full of contentment with a faint smile on his lips.

 

december | january

A cold draft blows in the room where the window is cracked, and McCree absently shivers. He’s warm otherwise, clad in flannel and nestled down into a pile of blankets. He’d stolen half of them from the lounge but no one has yelled at him yet. He checks the time on his tablet again. There’s just a few minutes left of the year, and although most of the teams have trickled back in there’s still one not yet back.

When he looks up from the screen, a streak of smoke is solidifying, reaching over to close the window it streamed in through as soon as a hand has formed.

“Sorry I’m late. We got him.”

“Really? You actually captured Doomfist?”

“He wasn’t happy to see me, I’ll tell you that much, particularly since I was the one to get him out last time.” He strips off his clothes, sliding into bed next to McCree.

“Did he think you were Overwatch?”

“No. He thought I turned him over to them for a bounty.” They’d all decided to keep Reaper’s new relationship with the organization quiet. It would likely come out eventually, but they could get more use out of being separate.

McCree thumbs over Reaper’s cheekbone, his smaller eyes closing in reaction. “You’re okay, not hurt?”

Reaper turns and catches his thumb between sharp teeth, just hard enough to draw a single drop of blood, before pressing a kiss to his palm. “I’m fine. Just glad to be back.”

Glancing once more at the tablet to note the time before tossing it to the side, McCree smiles fondly. “Just in time. Happy New Year.” They kiss gently, arms wrapping around each other and sliding beneath the covers.

 _Start the year as you mean to go on_ , McCree thinks, and Reaper’s head moves to rest against his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading friends


End file.
